VAGABOND    VERSES 


HENRY    AUSTIN 


*** 

*  *  * 


BOSTON : 

J.    STILMAN     SMITH    &    CO., 
3  HAMILTON  PLACE. 


COPYRIGHT,  1890,  BY  HENRY  AUSTIN. 


I  N  DEX. 

[My  thanks  are  due  to  some  of  the  editors  of  the  publications  here 
listed  for  kind,  fraternal  courtesies  connected  with  the  production  of  this 
little  book. — HENRY  AUSTIN.] 


Dedication I    

First  Love 2,  3  Sunday  School  Times 

Dea  Passu 3   Toronto  Week 

Haunted 4  Times-Democrat 

Une  Fleur  du  Mai 5    

September 6,   7    Independent 

The  Heart's  Arithmetic 7   Southern  Bivouac 

Bohemian  Days 8,  9,  IO   Our  Continent 

Stanzas  for  Music 1 1    Godey's  Magazine 

The  Bluebird 1 2,  1 3   Sunday  School  Times 

A  Sigh 13   Once  A  Week 

Oedipus 14,  15   Times-Democrat 

That  Day 15   Connoisseur 

Shadows 16,17   

Southward  Ho ! 17   Traveller's  Record 

All  The  Year  Round 18,  19   

Oneness 19   

The  Difference 20   Times-Democrat 

Impromptu 21    Times-Democrat 

Song 22   Philadelphia  American 

I. 


A  Parable 23   Home  Journal 

En  Rapport 24   Times-Democrat 

The  Chickadee 25   Century 

Meeting 25   Traveller's  Record 

In  Massachusetts 27,  27,  28   Independent 

For  the  Silent  Lover 29   Traveller's  Record 

A  Boston  Serenade 30,  31,  32   Traveller's  Record 

In  Persia 33   Once  A  Week 

Of  Life 33   Independent 

Two  Dreams 34   Traveller's  Record 

The  Dominant 35   Sunday  School  Times 

Extravaganza 35    Traveller's  Record 

America 36   Boston  Pilot 

Love's  Mystery 37   

The  Marriage  of  Death 38,  39,  40,  41,  42, 

43,  44,  45,  46,  . . .  .Once  A  Week 

Turning  the  Corner 47   

Hunting  Song 48,  49   

Sappho 50,51,  52,53,  54, 

55»  56»  57.  58» Century 

Face  to  Face ....  59,  60  Century 

Immortal 6l,  62   Baltimore  Times 

Fragments 63   

In  Victoris  Hugonis  Memoriam ...  64,  65,  66   

Frederick  III 66   Boston  Pilot 

To  Wendell  Phillips 67   Nationalist   Magazine 

A  Queen  and  a  Pioneer 68,  69   Boston  Herald 

Lines  to  Julia  Ward  Howe 70,  71    Boston  Herald 

One  of  the  Lowly 72,  73,  74,  75    

To  James  Whitcomb  Rilcy 75    Traveller's  Record 

On  My  Couch 76,  77   

Fredericksburg 78,  79,  80,  81    Independent 

Sympathy 81   

On  the  Brink 82,  83  

n. 


At  Parting 84,  85   

Mastodon-Saurus 86,  87,  88   .... .  .American  Magazine 

To  Lesbia 89   Nationalist  Magazine 

The  Grand  Army  Parade 90,  91    Boston  Herald 

The  Great  Diamond 92,  93,  94,  95    Connoisseur 

Discipline 95    Sunday  School  Times 

Do  You  Remember  ? 96,  97   Every  Saturday 

The  Nationalist  Pioneers 97   Nationalist  Magazine 

In  Memoriam  of  Boyle  O'Reilly  and 

Bernard   Carpenter 98,  99,  100   Boston  Herald 


Hi. 


DEDICATION. 

These  music-children  I  have  called  together 

To  give  them  all  a  father's  equal  kiss, 
Though  some  were  born  'neath  hedges  in  rough  weather 

And  some  in  palaces  of  silent  bliss. 

The  rain  of  tears  —  the  stain  of  wine  —  is  on  them; 

Their  best  and  truest  pale  beside  my  dream  ; 
But,  lady  mine,  let  fall  thine  eyes  upon  them 

And  then,  like  stars,  the  very  worst  shall  seem. 

For  thou  hast  brought  me  long,  long  days  of  joyance, 
Giving  each  glorious  hour  a  lingering  thrill ; 

And  thou,  through  nights  of  failure  and  annoyance, 
Of  doubt  and  pain,  hast  pointed  upward  still. 

So,  lady  mine,  this  book  of  rhymes  I  bring  thee, 
A  gift  which  from  the  taking  gaineth  grace ; 

E'en  as  all  beauty  in  the  songs  I  sing  thee 

Is  but  thy  soul's  bright  shadow  —  is  thy  face. 


(1) 


FIRST   LOVE. 

Years   ago,  on    lender   tiptoe,    she   would   steal   into   my 

chamber, 

Softer  than  a  song  at  sea  that  dies  upon  the  deep ; 
Then  would  bend  and  plant  a  flower  of  love  upon  my  lips 

in  slumber, 
Seeming,  like  a  dream,  half  true  when  I  was  half  asleep. 

And  at  times  as  I  lay  watching  for  the  fairies  I  believed  in, 
If  I  heard  her  footfalls,  how  I  slyly  would  pretend 

I  was  fast  asleep,  and  listen  to  her  bosom  heaving  o'er  me, 
Like  far  music  with  whose  echoes  faintest  perfumes 
blend ! 

Years  and  years  ago,  how  lovely  !  she  would  steal  into  my 

chamber ; 

Then  would  kneel  and  pray  for  me  beside  my  trundle-bed, 
And  I  used  to  think  the  golden  stars  were  eyes  of  happy 

angels, 
Bending  smiles  of  bright  approval  on  her  golden  head. 

Years   and   years   ago    my   first  love  often  stole    into   my 

chamber, 
And  how  many  a  flower  of  love  her  warm  lips  planted 

then  ! 
But  on  one  dark  night  —  a  shadow   of  the  Night  that  is 

eternal  — 
From  my  chamber  slow  she  went,  and  never  came  again. 


(2) 


Often  since  those  nights  of  childhood  I've  been  crowned 

with  thorns  and  roses  ; 

Many  falls  have  made  me  humble,  some  successes  proud  ; 
I  have  had  the  love  of  maiden,  felt  the  glorious  thrill  of 

friendship, 
Drunk  the  poet-wine  of  nature  under  sun  and  cloud. 

And  yet  now,    within  the   twilight,  as  I  think  of  all  the 

raptures, 

All  that  have  been  mine,  or  may  be  in  the  future's  keep, 
Sure,  ah  !  sadly  sure,  it  seemeth,  all  together  they  weigh 

nothing 

To  one  light  kiss  from  my  mother  on  my  make-believe 
asleep. 


DEA    PASSU. 


Upon  the  sumptuous  summer  of  my  days, 

The  splendid  August  of  my  vital  year, 
Thou  earnest,  gently  as  a  breeze  that  plays 
With  flowers  of  morning  in  such  tender  ways 

That  from  no  petal  falls  a  dewy  tear ; 

Yet  brightly,  as  the  mock  tears  disappear 
From  flowers'  glad  eyes  when  dies  the  flower-like  Dawn, 

Thou  earnest,  and  Youth's  golden  atmosphere 
Took  on  a  purple  splendor,  doubtless  drawn 
Out  of  the  truth-wells  of  thy  violet  eyes  ; 
And  swiftly,  too,  thou  earnest  —  in  no  guise 

Of  liking  that  to  friendship  warmed  and  then 

Burned  into  passion  after  fashion  of  men  — 
For  thou  wert  perfect  at  the  first  surprise. 


(3) 


HAUNTED. 

Within  this  empty  house 
Now  sports  the  furtive  mouse 
Where  late  my  darling  played 

Light  as  a  shade. 
Within  this  lonely  room 
Ah  !  how  she  used  to  bloom, 
Singing  in  golden  hours 

Of  love  and  flowers  ! 
Within  this  bed  she  lay  ; 
Ah  me  !  into  what  day  — 
What  daylight  of  delight  — 

She  turned  the  night ! 
Within  this  heart  she  crowned 
Passion  with  peace  profound, 
Making  Death's  shadow  seem 

Less  than  a  dream. 
Within  this  soul  she  sleeps  : 
She  is  not  dead  :  but  keeps 
Silence,  with  marble  smile, 

A  little  while. 
Within  this  life  there  is 
Much  cloud  of  mysteries  : 
But  through  the  darkest  night 

Her  star  shines  bright. 
Within  this  universe 
Pain  is  Perfection's  nurse; 
Yet  Faith  her  way  can  find  — 

Not  always  blind. 
Within  this  heaven  of  Love, 
This  soul  that  looks  above, 
This  heart  that  doth  not  break, 

She  sleeps  —  to  wake. 


(*) 


ONE   FLEUR  DU  MAL. 


She  found  a  flower  by  the  wayside 
A  wonderful,  white  flower  ; 
But  evil  was  the  hour 

She  lifted  it  from  the  wayside 
And  brought  it  to  her  bower. 


For  there  it  grew  gigantic, 

A  coiling  colonnade 

Like  to  the  banyan's  shade  ; 
And,  like  a  snake  gigantic, 

Its  tendrils  round  her  played. 

And  its  blossoms  so  white  —  ah  !  cruel  — 
To  a  frosty  silver  turned 
And  their  quivering  edges  burned 

From  that  to  a  crimson  as  cruel 
As  ever  'mid  flames  discerned. 


And  it  breathed  a  poisonous  odor 
Which  was  hot  by  fits  and  starts ; 
Then  cold,  as  the  icy  darts 

That  Winter  throws  —  an  odor 

Which  entered  her  heart  of  hearts. 


So  the  Woman  lay  dead,  or  dreamed  it ; 

And  that  Flower  of  frost  and  fire 

Became  her  funeral  pyre  ; 
Poor  Heart,  who  Love  had  dreamed  it, 

When  it  only  was  Desire  ! 


(5) 


SEPTEMBER. 

Summer  Is  dead,  they  say :  my  Queen  is  dead  i 
So  passeth  all  the  glory  of  the  earth  : 
Yet,  though  gray  clouds  are  marshalling  overhead, 
Still  lives  the  echo  of  my  fair  Queen's  mirth ; 
And  though  her  reign  be  ended,  her  bright  realm 
Remaineth  yet  unravaged,  yet  unchanged  — 
Hardly  one  red  leaf  on  the  graceful  elm  — 
And  see  !  one  poppy  lingers  unestranged 
Of  pristine  splendor,  while  the  wayside  sod 
Bears  witness  that  the  new  King  yet  is  mild, 
That  Autumn,  mindful  he  is  Summer's  child, 
Rules  with  remembrance  of  her  golden  rod. 

They  say,  Summer  is  dead,  but  it  is  hard 

For  me  to  feel  my  Queen  is  really  dead, 

And  when  I  pause  where  green  fields  yet  are  starred 

With  lavish  little  dollarets  of  gold, 

Wealthy  with  these,  I  raise  a  rebel  head 

Against  the  tyrant  clouds  threatful  of  cold 

And  cry :   "  O  Heart,  my  Summer  lives  and  reigns. 

She  hath  but  hid  a  moment  that  our  gains 

By  pains  might  be  superbly  multiplied 

Unto  perfection  ;  yea,  she  doth  but  hide 

And  soon  will  forth  again,  more  lovely  than  a  bride." 

Yea,  for  awhile  I  cannot  make  her  dead  : 
The  glamour  of  her  glory  gathered! 
A  subtler  charm  from  her  supposed  death  ; 
'Tis  not  her  ghost,  but  her  sweet  self  who  saith 
This  perfumed  benediction  that  hath  spread, 
Sudden,  o'er  all  things  in  this  valley  fair : 
Yea,  I  still  see  the  shadow  of  her  hair 


(6) 


Golden  in  yonder  covert :  she  is  there 

Beyond  a  peradventure,  and  once  more, 

With  loveliness  more  lovely  than  before, 

Yon  tree  shall  glimpse  to  me  her  Dryad  face 

Or  I  shall  see  her  rise  with  Naiad  grace 

There,  where  that  sprite  with  wings  of  woven  wind, 

That  domineering  dragon-fly,  now  gads 

With  gossip  rushes  near  those  lily-pads 

In  the  still  stream  —  or  there,  where  tints  of  Ind 

'Mid  jungled  banks  like  many  a  lurking  gleam 

Of  her  sweet  laughter  to  my  vision  seem  ;   • 

And  cardinal  flowers,  brave  priests  with  tongues  of  fire, 

Denounce  the  dulness  of  the  umbraged  stream 

Whose  amber  partly  mirrors  Heaven  —  indeed, 

E'en  like  our  hearts  where  many  a  vain  desire 

Broods  o'er  the  bright  brim  like  a  river-weed ; 

Yes,  there  she  lurks,  she  lives,  I  will  not  doubt 

Till  the  last  torch  of  the  last  weed  burn  out 

And  then,  within  my  heart,  for  all  she  gave, 

My  Queen,  my  Summer,  still  shall  live  and  reign  i 

Crowned  for  perfection  with  a  thorny  pain, 

Still  shall  she  live,  and  live,  and  have  no  grave. 


THE   HEART'S   ARITHMETIC, 

Though  like  the  sacred  lights  above 
May  shine  the  poet's  golden  name, 

One  little  hour  of  simple  love 

Outweighs  a  million  years  of  fame. 


(7) 


BOHEMIAN    DAYS. 

Ah,  Max  !  I  miss  the  glory  of  that  garret 

Which  oft  we  looked  at  through  a  purple  haze, 

Like  a  spice-island  in  a  sea  of  claret, 

When  merry  midnights  crowned  the  dear,  dead  day*. 

The  low-browed  walls  with  gaudy  playbills  papered 
That  mocked  the  jolly  sun's  astonished  rays ; 

The  blithesome  birds  that  round  their  cages  capered 
And  sang  so  sweetly  in  the  dear,  dead  days. 

The  old  machine  at  which  my  Love  sat  sewing 
And  humming  soft  my  favorite,  Scottish  lays 

Till,  from  her  bosom,  the  full  tune  came  flowing 
And  the  birds  listened  in  the  dear,  dead  days. 

The  dingy  desk  whereon  I  wrote  wild  stories 
For  trashy  prints,  or  cribbed  Parisian  plays, 

Dreaming  sometimes  of  true,  poetic  glories  — 
Butterfly  children  of  the  dear,  dead  days. 

The  ancient  riddle  that  you  used  to  fondle, 
Dear  Max,  and  make  us  glad  in  sudden  ways 

With  clamorous  roundelay  and  amorous  rondel :  — 
Ah  !  you  had  genius  in  the  dear,  dead  days. 

And  oh  !  that  shaky  table  where  so  neatly 
My  Love,  for  table-cloth,  the  paper  lays  ; 

Then,  while  I  read  the  news,  you  warble  sweetly 
A  grace  for  dinner  in  the  dear,  dead  days. 

Such  trills  —  such  tremolos  to  prelude  a  dinner  — 
Such  grace-notes  —  tricks  a  tender  tenor  plays  I 

Yes,  life  was  golden  ;  yes,  this  poor  bread-winner, 
My  pen,  was  potent  in  the  dear,  dead  days. 


(8) 


How  fair  these  things  arise  to  memory's  vision  I 
But  ah  I  the  sun  departs,  the  shadow  stays  5 

Yet  lingers  something  exquisite,  elysian, 

In  the  strange  pathos  of  the  dear,  dead  days. 

I  note  these  trifles  through  a  misty  brightness, 
Perchance  the  brightness  of  the  tear  they  raise ; 

And  my  heart  leaps,  yet  lingers  in  its  lightness, 
Like  her  low  laughter  in  the  dear,  dead  days. 

Like  her  —  how  soft  and  musical  in  motion 

With  deep,  dai'k  eyes  that  blind  the  diamond's  blaze  ! 

How  sweet  she  was  and  worthy  of  devotion 
From  any  poet  of  the  dear,  dead  days  ! 

Musing  sometimes  before  mine  easel  olden, 

I  paint  the  fancy-work  that  never  pays, 
Auroral  gleams  of  roses  turning  golden, 

My  dreams  of  color,  in  the  dear,  dead  days. 

Across  my  tints  her  graceful  shadow  steaieth ; 

I  leave  my  work  a  little  while  to  gaze 
On  the  new  charms  which  every  step  revealeth  — 

Ah !  vital  music  of  my  dear,  dead  days. 

She  stands  beside  me  with  the  sun's  caresses 
On  the  red  gold  that  down  her  bosom  strays  ; 

O  sunset  kisses  upon  auburn  tresses, 

Ye  seemed  God's  blessing  on  the  dear,  dead  days. 

She  stands  beside  me  —  Nay,  she  leaned  upon  me 
A  cheek  that  blushed  e'en  at  my  lightest  praise ; 

But  the  great  crown  of  light  her  eyes  put  on  me 
Is  lost  'mid  shadows  of  the  dear,  dead  days  ! 


(9) 


For,  now,  the  lonely  night  around  me  darkens, 
And  silence  my  sad  spirit  softly  sways 

Till,  with  all  discord  hushed,  it  humbly  hearkens 
For  faintest  echoes  of  those  dear,  dead  days. 


Ah  !  Max,  lost  friend,  if  then  this  heart  had  broken 

In  one  vast  wave  of  sorrowful  amaze, 
Over  my  grave  you  would  have  placed  a  token 

Of  our  fair  friendship  in  the  dear,  dead  days. 

But  now  your  face  with  ledger-lines  is  wrinkled  ; 

The  curse  of  gold  upon  you  heavily  weighs ; 
Like  coppers  are  the  splendid  eyes  that  twinkled 

With  happiest  humors  in  the  dear,  dead  days. 

Ah  !  Max,  your  change  would  be  sufficient  sorrow 
But  that  a  deeper  grief  my  soul  dismays : 

The  heavy  doubt  if  Death  will  have  a  morrow 
And  I  my  darling  of  the  dear,  dead  days. 

O  Sacred  Love !     How  couldst  thou  fade  so  quickly 
Like  a  fair  fruit-tree  ere  its  top  displays 

One  blossom  !     Ah  !  the  rain-drops  fell  too  thickly 
In  our  young  garden  in  the  dear,  dead  days. 

O  Love,  sweet  Love,  my  first,  last,  only  treasure, 
\Vilt  thou  not  send  me  ere  my  faith  decays 

One  single  smile  that  I  beyond  the  azure 

May  see  a  heavenly  dawn  for  all  our  dear,  dead  days  ? 


(10) 


STANZAS    FOR    MUSIC. 


i. 

The  sunset  grand  along  the  strand 

Gives  the  green  waves  a  golden  glow  — 

And  alone  I  stand,  in  a  far,  far  land, 
Watching  the  years  between  us  flow  — 

Watching  the  years,  the  bitter  years, 
Like  floods  of  tears 

Between  us  flow. 

ii. 

The  sunset  fades  amid  the  shades 

Over  the  waves  that  moan  so  low  : 
The  sunset  dies  —  but  o'er  the  skies 

Its  great  slow  ghost  now  seems  to  go  — 
And  alone  I  stand,  in  a  far,  far  land, 

Watching  the  years  between  us  flow  — 
Watching  the  years,  the  bitter  years, 

Like  floods  of  tears 

Between  us  flow. 

HI. 

The  night,  like  death,  without  a  breath, 

Falls  on  the  ocean,  still  and  slow  : 
Night  comes  to  me,  but  o'er  the  sea, 

Lady,  for  thee  the  day  doth  glow  ; 
And  so,  my  love,  I  look  above, 

Dreaming  the  Heaven  we  yet  may  know, 
Though  alone  I  stand,  in  a  far,  far  land, 

Watching  the  years  between  us  flow  — 
Watching  the  years,  the  bitter  years, 

Like  floods  of  tears 

Between  us  flow. 


(11) 


THE    BLUEBIRD. 

"  On  his  breast  the  earth  :  on  his  wings  and  back  the  sky." 

THOREAU. 

To  the  window  of  my  garret 

Came  a  bluebird  y  ester  morn, 
And  I  fancied  for  a  moment 

'Twas  the  soul  of  Spring,  newborn  ; 
But  I  heard  thy  wind,  October, 

Sighing  like  a  ghost  forlorn  ; 
And  the  gray  clouds,  full  of  menace, 

Frowned  the  dancing  leaves  to  scorn ; 
And  the  bluebird  flew  away  : 

Flew  away  ere  I  could  open 

Unto  such  a  heavenly  guest 
That  old  window  of  my  garret 

Near  to  which,  perhaps,  a  nest 
Full  of  bluebirds  once  was  hidden, — 

So,  before  his  southern  quest, 
He  had  paused  for  one  more  visit 

Near  the  place  he  loved  the  best, 

The  old  nest  where  he  was  born  : 

Yes,  was  born.     There  is  a  hollow 

In  the  apple-tree  close  by  ; 
And  the  bluebird  (who  doth  carry 

On  his  back  and  wings  the  sky, 
And  upon  his  breast  the  brown  earth 

Of  the  Spring-time  soft  and  shy), 
Trusteth  often  to  things  hollow  — 

Precious  hopes  —  as  you  and  I 

Oft  have  done  and  may  again. 


(12) 


May  again?     Nay,  will  do  always, 

Let  us  pray,  since  far  more  wise 
Is  the  habit  of  believing 

Than  the  wisdom  cynics  prize  : 
Rather  let  us  be  like  bluebirds 

Who,  although  the  brown  earth  tries 
Up  their  breasts  to  spread  its  color, 

Carry  on  their  wings  the  skies  — 
But  my  bluebird  flew  away  : 

Flew  away,  and  then  this  other 

Fancy  came  :  how  oft,  indeed, 
Heavenly  guests  unsought  might  seek  u» 

In  our  grayest  days  of  need, 
If  we  only  to  the  music 

Of  their  coming  wings  gave  heed  ! 
But  they  find  our  garret  windows 

Closed,  too  oft  —  and  so  they  speed, 
Like  my  bluebird,  far  away  ! 


A    SIGH. 

Just  for  one  day  if  you  and  I,  love, 

Could  be  together  as  free  as  air 
Under  the  smile  of  a  tropic  sky,  love, 

Oh  !  what  perfumes  the  breeze  would  bring  to  us  I 

Ah  !  what  music  the  birds  would  sing  to  us  !  — 
Till  day  departing  would  linger  there 

And  over  our  parting  softly  throw 

Many  a  rosebud  of  sunset  glow ; 

Ah  !  love,  sweet  love,  if  it  could  be  so  I 


OEDIPUS. 

STROPHE. 

I  have  lived  many  lives  in  many  lands 

And  much  of  evil  hath  my  nature  stained, 

But  I  have  felt  since  touching  of  thine  hands 
That  evil  is  not  in  my  soul  engrained. 

The  dust  and  sweat  of  the  world's  tournament 
Are  on  me,  and  the  battle  is  not  done, 

Because  the  fiery  spirit  must  have  vent 
Till  the  night  cometh  or  the  prize  be  won. 

What  night?  Ah  me  !  The  double  night  of  Death 
Which  clouds  and  shadows  Love's  serenest  noon ; 

What  prize  ?  Is  any  worthy  so  much  breath 
As  would  suffice  on  thy  sweet  lips  to  swoon  ? 

Is  life  worth  living?  I  have  heard  thee  ask 
And  then  reply  to  silence  with  a  sigh : 

But  I  who  in  thy  smiles  have  learned  to  bask 
Have  thus  unlearned  my  old  desire  to  die. 


ANTISTROPHE. 

Life  is  worth  living.     I,  who  tropic-born 

Have  chased  its  butterflies  from  boyhood's  morn  • 

Who,  early  lost  in  Folly's  flowery  maze, 

Have  lowered  my  nature  in  a  million  ways. 

Now  lift  it  up  and  lay  it  on  the  shrine 

Of  a  high  passion,  high  and  pure  as  thine  ; 


(14) 


A  passion  warm  as  sunlight,  yet  as  tender, 

As  is  the  maiden  moon's  midsummer  splendor, 

When  the  stars  tremble  in  the  melting  skies, 

Like  tears  of  happiness  in  angels'  eyes  — 

Like  tears  of  happiness !     O  Love,  if  I 

For  man  do  aught  of  good  that  shall  not  die, 

If  I,  despite  my  frequent  fall  and  sin, 

Make  the  world  better  for  my  having  been 

And  go  down  calmly  to  an  honored  end ; 

'Twill  be,  O  Love,  because  thou  didst  descend 

Upon  me,  as  of  old  the  soft,  swift  dove, 

Bringing  to  Life's  dark  ark  the  olive-branch  of  Love. 


THAT    DAY. 

All  things  confessed  thy  nearness.     Breeze  to  brook 

Whispered  my  bliss,  as  though  'twere  Nature's  gain  i 
The  brook  that  secret  to  the  river  took 

With  swifter  joy  :  the  river  to  the  main 
Unrolled  the  swelling  mystery  in  a  strain 

Of  solemn  sweetness,  and  on  many  a  sea, 
That  day,  the  lone  ships  rode  more  easily, 

Since  Ocean's  bosom  heaved  in  sympathy 
With  mutual  music  born  of  thee  and  me : 

That  day,  too,  many  a  mated  bird  proclaimed 
Thy  coming,  but  what  seemed  to  speak  thee  most 

Was  one  dark  rose,  whose  lovely,  fragrant  ghost 
Floated  above  the  garden's  dying  host  — 

Just  as  the  sky  with  sudden  sunset  flamed. 


(15) 


SHADOWS. 

i. 

He  —  Why  do  you  wake,  O  woman,  to-night, 

Having  slept  so  many  years? 
Why  do  you  start  from  your  grave  in  nay  heart  • 
O  woman  of  many  tears? 

n. 

She — I  have  come  to  learn 
If  your  lips  yet  burn 

With  the  kisses  I  kindled  there, 
Or  whether  the  grace 
Of  a  living  face 

Must  render  the  dead  less  fair, 

in. 

He  —  But  you  do  not  exist, 
O  woman  I  kissed 

In  the  twilights  of  Long  Ago  ; 
You  are  only  dust, 
Or,  if  soul,  I  trust  . 
You  are  far  above 
The  jealousied  love 
Of  the  dream  of  this  life  below. 

IV. 

She —     Has  it  come  to  this 

That  a  dead  girl's  kiss 
Is  outlived  by  the  lips  of  the  quick? 

Are  the  words  you  hear 

With  your  spirit's  ear 
Not  mine  —  but  a  curious  trick 

By  your  memory  played 

On  your  fancy  —  the  shade 


(1(5) 


Of  a  shadow,  the  dream  of  a  dream? 
O  God  !  my  lover  in  days  of  yore, 
Do  you  verily  count  me  as  one  no  more, 

Do  you  deem  that  these  tears  but  seem? 

v. 
He  —  This  is  merely  dew 

On  my  brow  that  lies  — 
Not  tears  from  you  — 
For  I  buried  you  twice, 
Once,  deep  down  in  a  garden  of  spice 
And  once  in  a  cavern  of  sobs  and  sighs 
Deeper  still,  in  the  heart's  great  grave, 

With  hopes,  ambitions  and  noble  things  — 
Aspirant  angels  that  lost  their  wings  — 
Then  why  should  you  quit  that  crimson  cave 
Where  the  best  of  my  life  is  hidden  away, 
Like  an  insect  bright 

In  a  chrysalid  gray  ; 
Till  the  falling  of  the  final  night 
Or  the  dawning  of  the  endless  day  ? 


SOUTHWARD    HO! 

The  dark  and  solemn  pines 
Beside  my  native  sea 
That  moan  In  minor  key, 

Like  a  sad  poet's  lines, 

Are  not  the  friends  for  me ; 

For  trees  of  fragrant  flower 
And  golden-globed  fruit 

With  graceful  boughs  invite 

My  Fancy  to  alight 

And  far  from  Pain's  pursuit 

To  build  her  rightful  bower. 


(17) 


ALL    THE    YEAR    ROUND 

I  heard  Love's  voice  in  Spring, 
When  birds  were  on  the  wing, 

Mating  and  softly  singing, 
And  oh  !  how  sweet  the  thing 
Love  whispered  in  the  Spring, 

When  all  the  woods  were  ringing ! 

In  Summer,  too,  I  heard 
Sweeter  than  any  bird 

Love's  lingering  voice  grow  firmer, 
E'en  as  the  music  grand 
The  sea  sings  to  the  land 

With  long  and  languorous  murmur. 

In  Autumn,  then,  the  tone 
Of  Love  had  rounder  grown, 

A  magic  cirque  of  motion  — 
As  if  the  ancient  hills 
With  .-ill  their  rollick  rills 

Would  overbrim  the  ocean. 

B\;t  Winter  comes  and  oh  ! 
Love's  lilting  voice  falls  low  — 

A  ghostly  tone  and  hollow  ! 
Long  have  the  birds  been  flown 
And  Love,  now  left  alone, 

What  can  he  do  but  follow? 


(18) 


Yet  ah  !  what  southern  land, 
By  favoring  breezes  fanned, 

Invites  Love  for  a  season? 
Nay,  nay,  Love  hath  no  wings 
And  what  Life's  winter  brings 

For  Love  to  shun  were  treason. 

All  things  may  pass  away, 
Like  birds  that  pipe  in  May 

And  vanish  in  September, 
But  Love  comes  here  to  stay 
And  though  our  heads  grow  gray, 

Our  hearts  have  no  December. 

So,  Soul  of  mine,  once  more 
I  pledge  thee  as  of  yore  ; 

But  now  with  deeper  reason; 
For  I  have  learned  this  truth, 
In  Age,  as  well  as  Youth, 

Love's  never  out  of  season. 


ONENESS. 

I  thank  thee,  dearest,  for  the  pain 
Thy  life  has  brought  to  me ; 

For  to  my  spirit  all  is  gain 
That  I  can  share  with  thee. 


THE    DIFFERENCE. 

In  Persia  there  lived  a  poet 

Who  fell  in  love  with  a  Rose  — 

Poor  child  of  odor  and  color 

That  soon  to  the  dark  earth  goes. 

In  England  was  born  a  singer 
Who  aimed  his  heart  at  a  star  — 

A  splendor  sublime  beyond  him, 
Eternally  fair  and  far. 

Then  somewhere  happened  another 
Who,  loving  a  homely  life, 

Took  a  gentle  and  graceful  woman 
For  his  muse,  as  well  as  wife. 

And  truly  he  found  about  her 
A  beauty  no  time  could  dim  : 

Her  face  was  a  rose  of  rapture  : 
Her  soul  was  a  star  to  him. 

The  flower  of  the  Persian's  passion 
Was  pleasure  and  lust  of  days  : 

The  light  of  the  Saxon's  vision 
Was  fame  and  popular  praise  : 

The  goal  that  they  gained  was  golden, 
But  I  wonder  if  they  found, 

When  summing  life  up  at  its  sunset, 
That  the  end  had  the  labor  crowned. 

And  I  fancy  the  household  rhymer, 
Though  unknown  he  sank  to  rest 

On  the  breast  of  our  common  Mother 
Was  the  happiest,  wisest,  best. 


(20) 


IMPROMPTU. 

Sometimes,  when  through  merriest  music 

That  should  stir  the  soul  to  sing, 
Steals  a  strain  of  over-sweetness, 

As  if  Joy  had  snapt  a  string, 
Memory  seemeth  like  some  sunset 

Where  Love  waves  a  cloudy  wing 
And  the  heart  at  its  own  echo 

Trembles  like  a  guilty  thing. 

Was  she  fair  —  that  girl  you  dream  of  ? 

Was  she  fair  and  overfond  ? 
Hath  she  crossed  the  long,  dark  river 

To  the  Bower  of  Dreams  beyond  ? 
Was  she  fairer  than  the  fairest 

Who  now  wields  the  wondrous  wand 
Of  that  mighty,  mad  magician, 

To  whose  spell  all  hearts  respond? 

Then,  my  friend,  seek  not  to  banish 

Such  a  gentle-meaning  ghost ; 
For  no  star  shines  half  so  certain 

In  the  calm,  eternal  host, 
As  the  star  of  hope  that  beckons 

Ever  to  that  other  coast, 
Where  those  souls  shall  sing  the  sweetest 

Who,  on  earth,  have  loved  the  most. 


(21  ) 


SONG. 

When  the  sun  is  in  the  west 
And  the  bird  is  on  her  nest 
And  the  wind  is  at  rest 

On  the  sea ; 

Right  above  the  harbor  bar 
Bright  as  love  outshines  a  star 

And  I  know  my  little  ship  is  coming  back  to  me. 

Though  the  sky  had  many  a  cloud 
When  her  outward  way  she  plowed, 
And  the  wind  wept  aloud 

On  the  sea, 

Yet  before  that  day  was  done, 
With  the  last  look  of  the  sun 

Rose  a  rainbow  for  a  sign,  a  divine  sign,  to  me. 

So  I'm  sure  that  up  the  bay 
I  shall  see  my  ship  some  day, 
Like  a  bird  flying  gay 

To  its  tree ; 

And  around  her  prow  the  spray 
Making  rainbows  all  the  way, 

Will  sing  treble  to  a  song  of  treble  joy  for  me. 


(22) 


A    PARABLE. 

Said  the  Meadow  to  the  Mountain 

"You  are  much  too  high ; 
People  cannot  dwell  upon  you  ; 

They  would  freeze  and  die." 

Said  the  Mountain  to  the  Meadow, 

With  a  smile  of  lofty  scorn  : 
"  Those  who  must  on  you  take  shelter 

Best  had  ne'er  been  born. 
Finer  far  the  clouds  that  crown  me 

Than  the  mists  that  rise  from  you  I 
Healthier  far  my  snowy  breezes 

Than  your  feverous  dew  !  " 

Then  the  Sun  who  loveth  all  things 

Laughed  a  broad,  bland  laugh  of  light, 
And  his  laughter's  golden  echo, 

Rolling  down  the  heavenly  height, 
Flooded,  with  a  vital  music 

And  a  summery  delight, 
Both  the  Mountain  and  the  Meadow 

So  they  were  united  quite, 
And  their  finite  self-importance 

Vapored  vaguely  out  of  sight. 


(23) 


EN     RAPPORT. 

Though  never  swift  caresses  or  slow  kisses 

May  tune  our  veins  to  Passion's  music  deep  ; 
Though  never,  never,  in  a  bovver  of  blisses 

May  we  make  Life  more  beautiful  than  Sleep  ; 
Though  'tween  us  twain  may  pass  no  tender  token, 

Beyond  some  slight,  shy  pressure  of  the  hand  ; 
Though  never  word  of  sweetness  may  be  spoken, 
Yet  you  will  understand  — 

Yes,  you  will  understand. 

And  if,  when  Life's  long  winter  shall  be  over, 

Our  weary  bodies  near  each  other  rest, 
May  we  not  dream  of  Love  beneath  the  clover, 
The  tender  clover  of  Earth's  mother-breast? 
Or  if  in  some  remote  and  radiant  regions 

Our  souls  should  kiss  ;  then  wander  hand  in  hand 
Far  from  the  wondering  gaze  of  angel  legions  — 

Why,  God  will  understand  — 
Yes,  He  will  understand. 


(24) 


THE    CHICKADEE. 

When  trees  stand  mute  with  bare,  protesting  arms 
Against  the  grayness  of  November  skies, 
Wherein  the  menace  of  a  snow-storm  lies ; 

When  bushes  all  have  lost  their  mellow  charms  — 
Save  the  witch-hazel  whose  dim  stars  appear, 

In  quaintest  mockery  of  its  fabled  powers, 

Like  pallid  ghosts  of  golden  summer  hours : 

When  winds  are  sighing  for  the  dying  year; 

When  not  a  bird  that  mated  in  the  Spring's 
Elusive  Eden  dares  to  linger  near, 

Even  to  sing  farewell,  but  spread  his  wings 

And,  aiming  South,  shoots  off  with  sudden  fear 

Of  the  cold  clouds  foreshadowing  snows  to  be  — 

Then  long  and  strong  of  song  is  heard  the  Chickadee. 


MEETING. 

In  a  strange  Southern  city  that  lies  bound 
Under  the  crush  and  ever-threatening  weight 
Of  the  great  Sire  of  Waters  —  calm  as  fate, 

Yet  joyous,  too,  with  ceaseless  roses  crowned, 
And  robed  of  orange  blooms  from  May  to  May, 

In  that  strange  Southern  city  where  to  dwell 

Means  to  feel  deepest  the  most  luring  spell 
Of  this  one  certain  life,  one  certain  day  — 

A  day  that  hath  in  memory's  heaven  been  set 
Supreme  'gainst  every  future  trick  of  chance  — 

Two  souls,  though  twin,  like  utter  strangers  met : 
Like  utter  strangers?   No  !  There  was  a  glance, 

Just  as  they  parted,  and  to  them  'twas  plain 

That  sometime,  somewhere,  they  should  meet  again. 


(25) 


IN    MASSACHUSETTS 

My  birthday,  and  the  snow  falls  fast 

On  this  dear  land  where  I  was  born : 
Yet  'spite  the  February  blast, 

This  very  morn 

Some  early  robins  whistled  clear 
A  funeral  march  for  Winter's  bier. 

And,  fluttering  in  the  windy  flaw 
Just  as  the  day  began  to  break, 
Was  it  a  bluebird  that  I  saw, 

Or  but  a  flake 

Of  springtime  skies,  whose  lucent  blues 
Lets  many  a  spirit-smile  come  through? 

But  the  snow  falls  and,  as  with  cold 

Grave-garments,  folds  my  birthday  round  ; 
And  where's  the  bird  so  blithe  and  bold 

With  merry  sound 
Will  fight  this  silence  falling  still 
On  my  heart,  as  on  vale  and  hill? 

No  birds  cry  "  comrade  "  to  my  call, 

But,  safely  hidden  in  the  screen 
Of  hemlocks  dense  or  chink  of  wall, 

They  sleep  serene  ; 
Tho',  in  the  pauses  of  the  snow, 
Hark  !  a  vast  wind  begins  to  blow 


(26) 


"  Hurrah  for  Winter,"  roars  the  Storm, 
"  Long  live  King  Winter  in  the  land, 
With  myriad  white  slaves  to  form, 

At  his  command, 
A  soljd  front  and  hold  at  bay 
The  flower-crowned  Queen  whose  name  is  May." 

Well  roared,  O  Storm  !  but  in  my  soul 

Thy  brag  a  gay  defiance  wakes, 
And  glowing  as  a  Christmas  coaij 

My  spirit  takes 

The  silver  shadow  of  unborn  May 
Close,  closer  to  Itself,  this  day. 

For  lo  !  I  see  —  not  far  away, 

Beyond  where  March  and  April  fight 
For  freedom  from  King  Winter's  sway  — 

A  strange  delight, 
And  every  hill  a-dancing  seems 
With  liberated  flowers  and  streams. 

And  hark  I  I  hear  a  triumph  blown 

From  purple  trumpets  which  to  men 
Are  by  the  name  of  roses  known, 

But  to  my  ken 

Are  kisses,  of  true  lovers  earned, 
By  May  to  trumps  of  perfume  turned 

And  hark  again  !  O'er  vale  and  hill 

A  slow,  sweet  zephyr  steals  its  way. 
No  more  a  silence  white  and  chill 

On  a  gray  day 

Is  falling,  falling,  but  the  long, 
Strong  sun  begins  and  sets  with  song. 


(27) 


O  strange  and  many-visaged  year, 
I  thank  my  stars  that  I  was  born 
In  this  dear  land,  by  some  thought  drear; 

Nor  do  I  mourn 

Because  my  birthdays  chance  to  be 
From  Winter's  empery  not  free. 

Since  'twixt  the  winter  and  the  spring 

My  spirit,  set  by  kindly  stars, 
Fellows  with  every  struggling  thing, 

Beating  life's  bars, 
And  feels  intenser,  every  year, 
Man's  triumph  typed  by  springtime  here. 

And  I  thank  God  that  I  was  born 

In  this  dear  land,  this  noble  State, 
Whose  voice,  from  Lexington's  red  morn, 

Commanding  Fate, 
Has  ever  thundered  in  the  van 
For  the  true  Brotherhood  of  Man. 

Then  fall  as  thick  as  thoughts,  ye  snows, 

And  shout,  proud  Storm,  upon  the  hills ! 
A  sweeter  peace  than  monarch  knows 

My  bosom  fills ; 

A  prouder  joy  expands  my  brain, 
In   Massachusetts   born   again. 


(28) 


FOR   THE   SILENT  LOVER. 

O  Rose  of  Brightness,  Lily  of  Whiteness, 

Breeze  of  Lightness,  blow  ! 
For  with  Laughter  sweet  of  dancing  Feet 

The  Brooks  to  the  River  flow 
And  the  Rivers  flashing,  to  Ocean  dashing, 

With  a  swelling  Triumph  go. 

Laugh  up,  ye  Flowers, 
Above  all  Words 

To  the  golden  Hours 

And  with  mating  Powers 
Laugh  out,  ye  Birds, 

As  ye  build  your  Bowers  ! 
And  from  Orchard  open  or  Forest-cover 
Sing,  O  sing,  for  the  Silent  Lover  — 
For  the  Silent  Lover  who  hath  not  broken 
Love's  deepening  Spell  by  Word  or  Token ; 
But  waits  at  the  Gates  of  Life's  Completeness, 
Though  the  shining  Hour  be  shod  with  Fleetness, 
Like  a  flying  Flower  —  a  Wreck  of  Sweetness  : 
Like  a  flying  Flower  some  Spirit  of  Cloud, 
Some  Wind  of  Destiny,  low,  not  loud, 
Drives  up  and  down  in  a  fragrant  Whirl, 
Like  the  Ghost  of  a  Kiss  from  the  Lips  of  a  Girl  — 
A  Girl  whose  Loveliness  makes  the  Spring 
Seem  a  real,  incarnate  Thing 
In  Glory  of  whom  the  Birds  must  sing 
And  the  Flowers  must  bloom ;  so  the  Silent  Lover 
A  Sign  of  Welcoming  may  discover 
And  thus  eternally  may  take  Heart, 
O  Birds  and  Flowers,  if  ye  take  his  Part. 


(29) 


A    BOSTON    SERENADE 

Sweetheart,  do  you  know  the  State 
"Where  the  spriiig-fl5vvers  linger  late 

Into  summer  5 

Where  the  maids  so  many  be 
That  they  welcome  with  strange  glee 

Every  male  new-comer? 

Where  the  hills  are  Hke  the  breasts 
Of  a  Giantess  when  she  rests 

To  recover, 

Thro'  a  long,  long  summer  day, 
From  an  hour's  volcanic  play 

With  her  Titan  lover? 

Where  the  woods  are  rich  in  trees 
And  the  rivers,  though  they  freeze, 

Ring  with  laughter 
From  fair  shapes  that  skate  along, 
Human  sunbeams  winged  with  song, 

Luring  strong  men  after? 

Where  the  voices  of  the  pines 
Preach  a  doctrine  that  combines 

Health  and  rapture ; 
And  the  birds  sing  benison 
O'er  the  hunter's  venison 

Or  the  salmon's  capture? 


(30) 


Sweetheart,  do  you  know  the  State 
Where  dark  shores  a  frown  like  Fate 

Oft  exhibit ; 

Where  fresh  water  is,  though  mute, 
Strong  as  that  loud  sea,  Canute 

Couldn't  quite  prohibit? 

Sweetheart,  if  you  know  that  rare 
Region,  let  us  hasten  there 

For  an  outing, 

Since  it  is  the  State  most  rich 
Next  the  state  of  mind  in  which 

Lovers  cease  their  doubting. 

Don't  I  make  my  meaning  plain, 
For  what  place  can  equal  Maine 

In  life's  August? 
So  let's  fly  from  Boston  heights 
Where  upon  a  poet's  flights 

Blows  so  many  a  raw  gust. 

On  the  "  Flying  Yankee  "  train 
Let's  elope  to  where  the  Main 

Echoes  grandest ; 
Where  mosquitoes  never  hurt 
And  the  waiters  at  dessert 

(Island)  smile  their  blandest. 

Sweetheart,  wake  and  come  with  me 
Ere  your  Sire's  dread  form  I  see 

Interposing ! 

Must  I,  must  I  longer  wait, 
Like  a  coachman  at  the  gate, 

While  you're  idly  dozing? 


(31) 


Must  I,  must  I  longer  doubt, 
Like  a  Lochinvar  locked  out, 

If  it  matters 

Whether  some  fierce  canine  brute, 
Angered  at  my  passionate  suit, 

Tears  it  into  tatters? 

Or  must  I  conclude  'tis  best 
To  donate  my  woes  a  rest 

With  a  lasso  ? 

Or  the  Frog-pond  seek  and  grant 
Reptiles  loud  a  chance  to  chant 

Requiem  in  basso? 

Or  to  lectures  by  J.  Cook 
Must  I  for  quietus  look, 

Or  a  panac — 

Ea  find  in  Fashion's  "  fad  " — 
With  Theosophy  run  mad 

And  be  simply  "  manas?" 

(Envoi.) 

No  !  Base  thoughts  of  Night,  away  ! 
For  she  comes,  my  Light,  my  Day — 

With  a  warning 
Finger  on  her  rosy  lips 
And,  as  down  the  path  she  trips, 

Crowns  the  world  with  morningf. 


(32) 


IN    PERSIA. 

Out  of  the  ebon  splendor  of  Night 

Steal  me  Night's  innermost  charm,  O  Poet ! 

The  soul  of  the  Ro«e  in  a  breeze  takes  flight ; 
Steal  it  in  song  ere  the  Rose  may  know  it  I 

Nay,  but  you  cannot,  O  thief  so  clever, 

Steal  night's  ebon,  so  starry  fair ; 
For  its  glory  hath  centered  forever  and  ever 

In  that  wonderful  crown,  my  sweetheart's  hair. 
And  as  for  the  soul  of  the  Rose,  with  reason, 

From  the  grasp  of  your  song  that,  also,  slips  ; 
For  the  soul  of  the  Rose  took  flight  in  season 

And  is  safe  in  the  heaven  of  my  sweetheart's  lips, 

OF    LIFE. 

I  know  a  lovely  Valley 

Which  hath  most  balmy  Air, 
'Mid  Hills  of  Roses  and  of  Snow 
Where  Brooks  of  Milk  and  Honey  flow, 

Lies  hid  that  Valley  fair. 

But  some  time  in  that  Valley  — 

Ah!  some  time,  if  God  wills  — 
A  Dawn-like  Vision,  white  and  pink, 
May  nestle  warm  and  softly  drink 

The  Fountains  of  those  Hills. 

The  Name  of  this  fair  Valley? 

O  Maid  and  Bride  and  Wife, 
As  long  as  married  lips  may  meet 
In  mystic  Music  deeply  sweet, 

'Tis  the  Valley  of  the  Shadow  of  Life. 


(33) 


TWO   DREAMS. 

(His.) 

If  a  Rose  could  sing 

In  just  one  song 
All  it  dreamed  of  spring 

Through  the  winter  long. 
Would  it  pray  the  zephyr  to  lend  its  tone, 
Or  the  brook  that  maketh  a  mimic  moan 
Over  some  cruel,  hard-hearted  stone? 
Or  the  mating  bird,  who  sings  his  best 
On  the  bough  that  shadows  his  covert  nest? 
Ah  !  no,  my  Beautiful,  thine  alone 
Of  all  the  music  to  Echo  known, 

Thv  sweet  soprano,  with  silvern  ring, 
Would  be  the  voice 
Of  its  loving  choice, 
If  a  Rose  could  sing  I 

(Hers.) 

Could  I  be  a  Rose  for  a  sweet,  swift  hour, — 

A  passionate,  purple,  perfect  flower, — 

Not  a  breath  would  I  spare  to  the  vagrant  air, 

For  the  woodland  warbler  I  would  not  care : 

But  oh  !  if  my  human  lover  came, 

Then  would  I  blush  like  a  heart  of  flame  — 

Like  a  heart  of  flame  I  would  send  a  sigh, 

A  note  of  perfume,  when  he  drew  nigh, 

That  should  make  him  take  me  ere  bees  could  sip, 

That  should  woo  him  to  me  with  bloomy  lip ; 

Till,  his  kisses  culling  the  flower  of  me, 
My  petals  close  on  his  lips  would  close, 

And  —  once  more  a  Woman  I  think  I'd  be, 
Could  I  be  a  Rose  ! 


(84) 


THE   DOMINANT. 

The  secret  of  the  vast  and  voiceful  sea 

Blends  and  sublimes  all  noises  near  it  heard, 
Chant  of  blind  bard  with  scream  of  northern  bird 

Or  spicy  whisper  of  south  wind  set  free 

From  sleep  in  some  Floridian  orange-tree 

Where  the  long  noonlight  seems  to  stay  unstirred  : 
Yet  Ocean  finds  its  dominant  in  one  word, 
One  little  word  that  o'er  the  breakers'  roar 

Leaps  ever  to  a  myriad  lips  and  brings 

A  serene  rapture  that  forever  clings  : 

Yea,  though  wrecked  hopes  by  hundreds  heap  the  shore 
Of  Life's  dark  Ocean,  yet  forevermore 

Still  to  wise  ears  the  small  word,  Love,  shall  be 
The  secret  of  the  vast  and  voiceful  sea. 


EXTRAVAGANZA. 

Give  me  the  skies  for  a  scroll  — 
For  a  pen,  thy  soul, 

Beloved,  and  I  will  write 
Stars  by  which  men  may  steer 

Through  shadows  and  clouds  of  night, 
Past  reefs  of  danger,  'mid  fogs  of  fear, 
To  the  haven  of  Heaven  that  is  ever  near ; 

So  very  near  and  clear  in  truth 

Men  see  it  not  in  their  heedless  youth 
As  I,  most  happy  and  so  most  wise 
Of  all  the  poets  under  the  skies, 
Have  watched  its  welcoming  waves  arise 
From  the  deep,  sweet  sea  of  my  lady's  eyes. 


(85) 


AMERICA. 

0  Mother  land,  I  love  thee 
Each  day  with  larger  heart, 

1  count  no  dream  above  thee, 
'Tis  thou  my  true  love  art. 

Not  for  thy  stately  mountains, 
Not  for  thy  rivers  grand, 

Not  for  the  countless  fountains 
Of  power  at  thy  command. 

Not  for  thy  heroes,  tameless 
As  eagles,  now  enskied 

In  fame  —  but  for  thy  nameless, 
True  hearts  on  every  side. 

Yea,  for  thy  men  and  women, 
The  husbands  and  the  wives, 

Whose  love  grows  never  dim  in 
The  dusk  of  lowly  lives  — 

True  hearts  forever  giving, 
Yea,  hungry  to  bestow, 

Who  find  this  life  worth  living, 
Because  they  make  it  so  — 

My  sisters  and  my  brothers 
Of  the  most  common  clan 

Whose  lives,  laid  down  for  others, 
Build  up  the  future  man. 


(36) 


LOVE'S    MYSTERY. 

I  cannot  count  the  myriad  things 
That  mesh  my  inmost  soul  to  thine, 
The  kiss  so  human,  yet  divine, 

The  look  that  lifts  me,  lends  me  wings  ; 

The  low,  sweet  voice  that  doth  no  wrong 
To  long,  sweet  silence  'twixt  our  souls, 
The  tone  that  every  care  cajoles 

And  when  it  ceases  hints  of  song. 

Why  do  I  love  thee?     'Tis,  indeed, 
No  easy  task  to  tell  thee  why : 
That  thou  art  thou  and  I  am  I 

Seems  the  best  answer  at  my  need. 


(87) 


THE    MARRIAGE    OF    DEATH 

They  were  good  old  days,  when  the  blood  of  a  man 

Thro'  his  veins  like  a  crimson  cataract  ran  ; 
Played  purpler  than  wine,  rayed  redder  than  fire, 

At  the  rush  and  the  flush  of  a  strange  desire. 
They  were  dazzling  days,  when  the  blood  of  men 

(The  Reign  of  Terror  they  called  it  then) 
Flowed  faster  than  ever  before  it  flowed 

At  a  touch  too  much  of  Tyranny's  goad, 
And  the  harvests  of  heaven  by  that  red,  red  rain 

Were  made  most  plentiful.     But  'twas  plain 
That  days  so  good  could  not  long  remain, 

And  never  —  ah  !  never  —  might  dawn  again. 
So  the  people  of  France  got  drunk  with  blood  — 

Drunk  and  drowned  in  the  self-same  flood; 
But  up  on  that  deluge  of  human  hate, 

And  down  to  our  desolate  day  so  late, 
One  flower  has  floated,  defying  Fate  — 

A  flower  divine  that  shall  bloom  above 
All  waves  of  all  times  —  and  that  flower  is  Love  I 

Hark  to  the  trembling  of  Europe's  thrones  ! 

No,  'tis  the  tumbrils  over  the  stones, 
In  mimicry,  doubtless,  of  dying  groans, 

Rumbling  and  rattling  their  wooden  bones  ; 
But  the  summer  morning  is  hardly  done 

Ere  a  sanguine  cloud  overblows  the  sun 


(88) 


For  the  odor  and  color  and  motion  of  blood 

Seem  as  much  in  the  sky  as  down  in  the  rnud 
Of  beautiful  Paris,  that  scarlet  Beast, 

Who  is  holding  a  carnival,  cannibal  feast 
Of  blood,  blood,  blood,  with  cries  of  "  more" 

From  a  mad  mob  never  so  mad  before. 
Yet,  tho'  'tis  done  by  the  coil  of  might, 

'Tis  draped  with  a  goodly  show  of  right ; 
And  the  Judge  in  his  high  tribunal  sits 

With  that  calm,  wise  look  which  a  judge  befits. 
But  mark  !  as  he  daintily  trims  his  nails, 

What  tiger  glances  each  eyelid  veils  I 
And  yet,  with  expression  slightly  bored, 

He  condemns  to  the  same  death  lackey  and  lord  ; 
High-born  lady  and  poor  grisette 

On  this  level  of  fashion  at  last  have  met ; 
Vice  and  virtue,  folly  and  fame, 

Here  are  balanced  and  judged  the  same  ; 
For  his  Honor,  the  Judge,  hath  a  pride  serene 

In  raising  all  ranks  —  to  the  guillotine. 

But  at  length,  by  this  legal  sameness  tired, 

A  spice  of  variety  he  desired  ; 
And,  rolling  his  eyeballs,  chanced  to  spy 

The  river  Seine  that  was  dancing  by 
And  laughing  up  gold  to  the  sunbeams'  kiss. 

Ah  !  what  joy  to  the  Judge  was  a  sight  like  this, 
Since  it  gave  him  a  fancy  fairy-fine 

As  the  web  of  a  spider  where  dewdrops  shine ; 
For  the  Judge  in  his  way  was  a  humorist  gay, 

And  the  ghost  of  a  grin  round  his  lips  did  play, 
As  the  tumbril  emptied  two  prisoners  more 

To  keep  up  the  morning's  usual  score. 
Two  victims  more  —  a  marchioness,  fair 

Enough  for  a  castle  in  the  air, 


With  eyes  of  sky  and  with  sunny  hair ; 

And  could  she  have  smiled  on  that  mob  so  wild, 
For  sure  it  had  wept  like  a  penitent  child  ; 

But  no  smile  had  she  save  the  calm  contempt 
Of  patrician  lips :   she  had  never  dreamt 

Of  meeting  s;ich  rabble  so  close  —  as  death  ; 
Or  vexing  her  nose  with  such  glomerate  breath. 

And  there,  beside  her,  stept  from  the  cart, 
As  proud  as  if  he  had  a  kingdom  won, 

With  a  glow  on  his  cheeks  like  the  rose's  heart, 
A  Breton  nobleman's  natural  son  — 

A  love-child  he,  in  whose  veins,  as  man, 
The  passion  that  made  him  redoubled  ran, 

And  kept  him  ever  in  Danger's  van, 
Burning  to  raze  out  by  deeds  of  worth 

The  leprous  stain  of  his  luckless  birth. 

O  !  a  splendid  sight  was  this  gallant  knight, 

Contrasted  there  with  that  lady  bright ; 
For  his  eyes'  dark  blue  had  the  darkest  hue 

That  midnight  vapors  unveil  to  view 
In  chasms  of  azure,  where  stars  be  few ; 

And  his  curls  were  black  as  the  burning  track 
Of  the  bolt  that  follows  the  thunder-crack, 

When  clouds  by  mountains  are  baffled  back. 
But  it  was  not  their  beauty  that  stirred  one  so, 

Or  a  sense  of  the  doom  they  must  undergo, 
As  the  curious  thrill  of  a  power  more  strong 

E'en  than  the  madness  of  that  mad  throng 
Who  thirsted  to  see  them  condemned  and  sped  — 

To  see  down-rolling  the  golden  head 
With  the  dark  locks  tangled  and  spattered  red ! 

Then  silence  shadowed  that  lurid  air 
One  moment  —  a  silence  so  strange,  so  rare, 

It  was  felt  like  an  angel  hovering  there ; 


(40) 


Till  the  Judge  began  with  an  accent  bland 
And  a  gentle  wave  of  his  jeweled  hand  : 

"  Aristocrats,  death  was  the  only  boon 

Ye  could  not  withhold  from  the  peasant  loon  ; 
But  the  peasant  loon  is  to-day  a  King 

And  ye  shall  soon  be  —  not  anything! 
The  bird  o'  the  air,  the  fish  o'  the  sea 

In  a  little  hour  shall  be  more  than  ye. 
It  were  pity,  indeed,  that  so  fine  a  pair 

Of  noble  bipeds  should  scent  the  air 
With  the  same  corruption  as  common  clay, 

When  ye  die,  as  we  all  must,  and  ye  to-day. 
Ahem  !  methinks  'twould  be  well,  fair  dame, 

If  your  pale,  proud  face  could  be  put  to  shame  — 
Shame  worse  than  ever,  with  easy  grace, 

Your  kinsmen  wrought  on  our  slavish  race, 
When  they  honored  our  maids  with  a  chaste  embrace. 

Ay,  truly,  we  were  a  slavish  race  — 
Ay,  verily,  France  was  a  knavish  place  ; 

But  the  people  have  risen  to  ring  your  knell, 
And  methinks,  O  Lily,  it  would  be  well  — 

Yes,  well,  fair  face  with  your  golden  crown  — 
To  send  you  blushing  the  whole  way  down, 

Down,  down  to  the  hell  whose  counterfeit  strong 
Ye  have  stamped  on  the  people  of  France  so  long. 

I  therefore  ordain  that  from  ye  twain 
Each  garb  and  garment  shall  be  ta'en, 

And  ye  shall  be  bound  in  a  single  chain 
For  an  endless  bath  in  the  river  Seine. 

Naked  ye  came  to  this  world,  and  so 
To  the  next,  together,  ye  twain  shall  go  ; 

And  as  your  God's  an  aristocrat,  too, 
Perchance  ye  can  join  the  celestial  crew 

And  k  p-jrd  '  it  and  '  lady  '  it  up  in  the  blue." 


(41) 


The  Judge  stopped  short,  lest  an  overflow 

Of  passion  should  mar  the  judicial  show. 
Near  to  the  prisoners  the  jailers  drew, 

His  Honor's  bidding  right  there  to  do  ; 
And  worse  than  the  roar  of  a  prairie  fire 

Wed  to  a  whirlwind,  higher  and  higher 
A  laughing  shout  from  the  populace  came ; 

But  as  thunder  can  render  the  wild  sea  tame — 
Being  the  voice  of  a  grander  power  — 

So  down  from  the  peak  of  that  luminous  hour, 
The  voice  of  that  lady,  pure  and  fresh, 

Like  a  spirit  triumphing  over  flesh, 
Rang  forth  so  strangely  sweet  and  clear 

The  very  dead  might  have  waked  to  hear, 
And  the  vast,  fierce  circle  of  breathing  men 

To  a  death-like  silence  were  charmed  then : 

"  O  !  noble  Judge,  one  word  I  crave 
Before  I  go  to  the  waiting  wave. 

0  !  generous  Judge,  one  word  I  pray 
Before  these  jailers  have  their  way 

With  this  poor  body,  this  empty  shell, 

Where  the  pearl  of  soul  may  no  longer  dwell. 

1  beseech  you  not,  by  your  mother's  breast, 

And  the  memories  pure  of  that  sacred  nest ; 
I  beg  you  not,  in  your  daughter's  name, 

To  recall  your  sentence  of  seeming  shame. 
It  may  be  true  that  my  sires  have  done 

Such  wrongs  to  you,  that  God's  eye,  the  sun, 
Will  not  veil  itself  in  a  frown  of  cloud, 

But  will  seem  to  smile  at  your  vengeance  proud, 
And  in  sympathy  with  the  gloating  crowd. 

It  may  be  righteous,  and  therefore  I, 
As  a  slight  atonement,  am  glad  to  die  — 

Am  proud  to  pass  like  that  lady  fair 


(42) 


Who,  years  ago,  with  streaming  hair 

Rode  up  and  down  through  the  common  street, 
Clad  only  in  goodness  from  crown  to  feet. 

So  deem  not,  O  man,  the  intended  shame 
Will  make  my  cheek  like  a  flower  of  flame  ; 

For  to  spirits  that  face  Futurity, 
Engirdled  with  Christian  purity, 

What  shame  can  happen  from  outside  things? 
I  shall  need  no  angels  with  dazzling  wings 

To  shield  me  here  from  polluting  eyes, 
Though  I  hear  them  calling  me  now  from  the  skies, 

And  bidding  me  conquer  with  heavenly  faith 
The  bodily  dread  of  this  painful  death — 

This  painful  death  which  I  now  embrace 
In  the  humble  hope  it  may  raise  our  race 

To  a  purer  purpose  of  life,  perchance, 
And  thus  be  a  blessing  to  you  and  France  ; 

But  as  for  this  man  who  standeth  here — 
So  near  to  death,  yet  so  far  from  fear — 

I  pray  you  spare  him,  because  in  truth 
Since  first  I  knew  him,  a  village  youth, 

Though  half  a  noble  in  his  descent, 
His  life  to  the  poor  has  been  always  lent. 

For  the  cause  of  the  people  his  tongue  has  pled, 
So  why  should  the  people  desire  him  dead? 

O  !  Judge,  behold  !  on  one  knee  I  bend 
And  pray  you  to  spare  him,  my  childhood's  friend, 

My  womanhood's  lover,  whose  only  sin 
Against  the  people,  they  know,  hath  been 

That  a  lady's  heart  he  tried  to  win — 
Tried,  though  on  Poverty's  slippery  bank, 

To  bridge  with  his  love  the  dark  river  of  rank. 
So,  Judge,  for  the  sake  of  your  own  dear  wife, 

Let  me  die  alone  —  give  me  back  his  life  — 
Let  him  live  for  the  people  —  " 


(43) 


"  Stop  !  "  roared  the  Judge  ; 

"  Not  another  word  of  this  lovesick  fudge  ! 
He  shall  die,  the  hound  !     'Tis  enough  to  know 

That  noble  blood  in  his  veins  doth  flow. 
Were  it  only  a  drop,  he  should  die  —  should  die, 

Had  he  none  at  all,  for  aiming  so  high 
As  to  love  a  lady  like  you,  instead 

Of  being  content  with  a  peasant's  bed. 
On,  guards,  to  your  duty  !     'Tis  growing  late, 
•    And  for  this  fair  couple  the  angels  wait ; 
Which  'twere  highly  uncivil  to  make  them  do  ; 

When,  moreover,  our  dinners  are  waiting,  too." 

He  paused,  the  force  of  his  humor  grim 

For  a  little  space  overpowering  him  : 
He  paused,  and  a  stir,  like  the  first  faint  breeze 

That  breaks  the  mirror  of  tropic  seas 
In  a  dead  calm  sleeping,  began  to  creep 

Through  that  crimson  crowd  ;  when  clear,  though  deep, 
Like  the  thunder  of  a  sunset  gun 

Bidding  farewell  to  a  summer  sun, 
Sprang  forth  the  voice  of  the  lover,  filled 

With  a  triumph  not  to  be  stayed  or  stilled  : 

"  Oh  !  Judge,  I  thank  thee  for  my  doom, 

Thou  hast  given  to  death  a  more  radiant  bloom 
Than  ever  existence  smiled  on  me. 

In  truth,  I  could  almost  kneel  to  thee, 
As  to  a  god,  O  man  most  kind, 

Although  no  mercy  thou  hast  designed. 
Yet  I  thank  thee  with  every  drop  o'  the  blood 

That  laughs  thro'  me  now  like  a  fiery  flood. 
For  I  've  loved  this  woman  all  my  life  : 

She  could  not,  or  would  not,  become  my  wife, 
Since  the  stream  of  her  veins  its  hue  derives 


(44) 


From  the  crystalest  current  of  kingly  lives  ; 
And  I  —  I  am  part  o'  the  people,  base-born, 

But  a  rose  now  grows  on  my  life's  long  thorn, 
I  am  crowned  a  king  by  this  doom  —  in  sooth, 

I  feel  like  a  God  of  eternal  Youth. 
What !  close —  so  close  to  the  woman  I  love? 

Let  the  gay  Seine  sing,  as  it  rolls  above, 
My  heart  will  sing  louder  before  it  stops, 

And  the  bubble,  life,  from  my  vision  drops. 
Ah  !  to  me  she  will  grow  with  a  drowning  grasp, 

As  I  hold  her  and  fold  her  in  closer  clasp 
Than  the  cruel  chain  or  the  river  deep 

In  whose  bed  our  bones  will  forever  sleep. 
Ah  !  to  me  she  will  cling  as  the  chain  drags  down, 

And  perchance  she  will  kiss  me,  once,  as  we  drown, 
Being  touched  at  last  by  my  love  so  long — 

Ay,  longer  than  life  and  than  death  more  strong. 
Yet  at  first,  O  man  of  the  icy  smile, 

When  I  heard  thee  speak,  for  a  little  while 
My  heart  with  hate  would  have  laughed  to  see 

Thy  spirit  punished  (as  men  may  be 
Through  countless  years  by  the  judgment-flame) 

For  seeking  to  wreak  an  unspeakable  shame 
On  the  sacred  woman  who  standeth  there, 

Like  the  angel  of  France  condemned  to  bear, 
For  a  time  communion  with  things  as  base 

As  the  coward  hate  of  thy  cruel  face. 
But  since  with  a  smile  of  eternal  bloom 

Her  soul  hath  welcomed  the  shameful  doom, 
My  soul  wings  up  to  the  height  of  hers, 

And  hatred  no  longer  my  vision  blurs. 
I  see  the  future  of  France  as  fair 

In  purpose  and  power  as  that  woman  there ; 
And  so,  I  thank  thee,  O  cruel  mind, 

Although  no  goodness  thou  hast  designed. 


(45) 


Yea,  Judge,  I  thank  thee  !  and  when  alone 

Thou  standest  in  face  of  Jehovah's  throne, 
O  Judge,  for  judgment,  I  will  leap 

To  thy  side,  if  I  were  in  Hell's  deepest  deep, 
And  unabashed  I  will  plead  for  thee 

With  the  deed  this  day  thou  hast  done  to  me ; 
And  I'll  pray  Lord  Christ  that  I  may  take 

Thy  term  of  punishment  for  the  sake 
Of  this  great  glory  —  to  die  in  those  arms  — 

Close-holding  that  treasure  of  measureless  charms. 
Yes,  life  is  worth  living !  O  sweet  river  Seine, 

I  thirst  for  thy  waters  with  every  vein. 
We  shall  go  down  together,  as  one  flesh,  we  twain  — 

We  twain  as  one  flesh,  and  perhaps  we  shall  rise 
To  that  place  the  heart  claimeth,  a  home  in  the  skies, 

And,  still,  still  together!  O  !  girl  with  gold  hair 
And  soft  budding  bosoms  unblushed  with  despair 

At  this  fashion  of  dying,  which  worse  would  appear 
Than  dying  itself  to  a  spirit  less  clear, 

Less  pure  than  thou  art,  Love  —  I  pray  thee  forgive 
My  delight  to  die  thus,  tho'  we  thus  could  not  live. 

Forgive  me,  O  Love,  for  I  love  thee  so  much, 
Nor  will  I  thy  lips  with  my  lips  try  to  touch, 

As  we  sink  down  together  from  sight  of  the  sun, 
Unless  thou  shalt  make  me  a  sign  I  have  won  — 

Won,  with  France,  thy  last  heart-beat.     Now,  Judge, 

I  am  done. 
Come,  Jailers,  my  groomsmen,  prepare  me,  and  I, 

Who  have  lived  in  deep  love,  will  in  deeper  love  die." 


The  years  have  rolled  on,  and  the  Seine  as  it  rolls 

Hides  the  place  of  their  bodies  —  but  France  has  their 
souls. 


(46) 


TURNING    THE    CORNER. 

Softly  I  paused  to  watch  her  out  of  sight, 

My  Soul's  Delight ! 
At  the  first  corner  suddenly  she  turned, 

Oh  !  how  I  yearned 
With  joy  unspeakable,  when  her  true  eyes  — 

In  glad  surprise 
To  catch  me  thus  at  her  own  tender  trick  — 

Flashed  me  a  quick, 
A  quickening  glance  that  said  :     "  O  sweet,  sweet  Heart, 

Tho'  kept  apart 
For  now,  so  full  of  longing  I  am  filled 

My  soul  doth  build 
A  bridge  of  dreams,  wherever  it  may  be, 

Ever  to  thee." 
This  having  said  with  her  pure  eyes  that  are 

Sweeter  by  far 
Than  aught  of  earth  or  heaven  —  except  her  lips  — 

Away  she  trips 
Taking  my  heart  but —  how  my  bosom  stirs  !  — 

She  leaves  me  hers. 


(47) 


HUNTING-SONG. 


Once  more  in  the  saddle  and  riding  to  hounds  ! 
Tho'  our  coursers  are  bounding,  our  joy  has  no  bounds< 
And  how  can  we  paint  it,  or  limn  it,  in  verse 
This  joy  without  limit  we're  bound  to  rehearse? 
Harkaway !     Harkaway ! 

How  the  spirit  grows  young, 
As  we  see  the  gay  play 

Of  the  hounds  giving  tongue  ! 
Harkaway  !     How  she  springs 

Over  hollow  and  hill ! 
Molly  Hare,  had  you  wings, 
We  would  follow  you  still. 

n. 

Once  more  in  the  saddle !  O  breeze  of  young  morn, 
He  who  loves  not  thy  kiss  has  no  right  to  be  born  — 
To  be  borne  on  a  beautiful,  race-loving  horse, 
With  faithful  dogs  near,  as  a  matter  of  course. 
Hillyho  !     How  the  sun, 

Like  a  jolly  old  boy, 
The  race  that  we  run 

Hastens  up  to  enjoy  — 
Leaves  behind  him  the  night, 

As  we  do  all  care, 
When  we  follow  the  flight 
Of  the  hounds  and  the  hare. 


(48) 


III. 

Once  more  in  the  saddle !     On,  on,  till  the  gale 
In  the  flame  of  our  speed  has  to  flicker  and  fail ! 
On,  on,  till  the  hills  reel  like  ships  in  a  storm 
And  the  hare  flies  so  fast  that  she  loses  her  form  I 
Hilly-ho !     Hilly-ho ! 

We  are  merrymen  all 
Recking  not,  as  we  go, 

If  our  pride  gets  a  fall ; 
Over  bush,  over  stream, 

Over  fence  how  we  fly, 
Like  a  wild,  whirling  dream 
'Twixt  the  earth  and  the  sky ! 

IV. 

But  when  the  hunt's  over  and  Molly  hangs  calm 
By  the  saddle,  oh  !  tell  me,  has  conscience  a  balm 
For  the  thought  of  her  murder  so  wantonly  done  ? 
Ah  !  no,  answers  Echo,  unless  there  be  one 
In  the  fact  —  Hilly-ho  !  — 

That  a  hare  stewed  in  wine, 
Either  Port  or  Cliquot, 
Is  so  wondrously  fine 
That  if  Man  were  a  hare 

And  were  wise,  he  would  wish, 
After  life's  wear  and  tear, 
To  become  such  a  dish  ! 


(49) 


SAPPHO. 

Upon  a  height,  upon  a  height  of  song, 

A  maiden  sits  whose  bosom  ne'er  hath  heaved 

With  the  dark  billows  that  to  Love  belong, 

Who  hath  not  been  deceived,  who  hath  not  grieved. 


From  the  bright  bow  of  her  delicious  lips 
Arrows  of  music,  like  to  sunbeams,  spring ; 

And  like  the  shafts  upon  the  shoulder  tips 
Of  Phoebus,  loud  in  human  hearts  they  ring. 


Greece  shuts  her  eyes  to  listen,  as  the  lay 
From  Lesbos-isle  o'er-sings  the  echoing  sea. 

And  in  the  purple  fields  of  nether  day 

The  shade  of  Homer  brightens  wondrously. 


60) 


Tears  fill  those  eyes,  long  blind  to  human  strife  — 
Tears  of  keen  pleasure,  such  as  Hector  shed, 

When  on  the  fragrant  bosom  of  his  wife 
The  hero's  baby  hid  a  startled  head. 


And  in  that  grove  of  cypresses  severe 
That  sadly  sentinel  the  Stygian  stream, 

When  Sappho's  music  brims  her  empty  ear, 

The  ghost  of  Helen  smiles  through  her  dark  dream. 


For  never  yet,  since  naked  from  the  wave 

That  climbed  her,  clamorous  for  a  last  embrace, 

Arose  that  goddess,  crueller  than  the  grave, 

With  gleams  like  laughters  in  her  gliding  grace, — 


O  !  never  yet,  since  Venus  like  a  flower 

Rose  from  the  subject  sea,  hath  woman's  word 

The  world's  deep  heart  with  such  mysterious  power, 
The  world's  deep  heart,  like  the  deep  ocean,  stirred. 


But  if  the  shadows  in  the  populous  vasts 
Of  Death's  domain  thrill  at  the  song  divine, 

Oh !  how  much  deeper  is  the  spell  it  casts 

On  those  yet  quaffing  Life's  resplendent  wine ! 


(51) 


No  wonder  maids  of  Lesbos  'neath  the  moon 
Dance  till  the  day  comes  blushing  up  the  hill, 

And  then,  in  coverts  apt  for  amorous  swoon, 

Till  noon  bring  sleep,  of  dream-love  take  their  fill. 


No  wonder  men  of  Lesbos  are  inspired 
To  loftier  aims  of  love,  to  grander  deeds 

Of  patriot  purpose  by  the  singer  fired  ; 

But  now,  alas  !  her  own  full  bosom  bleeds  : 


Phaon  has  come  ;  and  on  her  perfect  lips 

The  song's  perfection  ceaseth.     She  is  mute, 

While  from  her  sudden-tremulous  palms  there  slips 
Quick  to  her  feet  the  sudden-rifted  lute. 


Phaon  has  come  :  alas  !  for  happy  days,  — 
Alas  !  for  innocence  of  girlish  youth,  — 

Her  eyes  are  dazzled  by  his  careless  blaze 
And  all  his  coinage  has  the  ring  of  truth. 


Strange !  Other  men  as  beautiful  as  he 

In  Lesbos,  lovely  land,  have  wooed  her  warm, 

And  often  sworn  to  her  on  bended  knee 

Her  sweet  song  could  not  match  her  face  and  form. 


(52  ) 


But  Phaon  proudly  towers  above  the  rest, 
And  at  his  lightest  word  each  ruddy  drop 

In  her  bright  body,  hurrying  to  her  breast, 
Burns  with  a  madness  that  no  will  may  stop. 


"  I  love  him,  love  him  —  but  does  he  love  me?" 
Ahi   question  asked  for  ages,  —  seldom  yet 

Securely  answered  - —  by  what  hard  decree 

In  woman's  rose-heart  must  that  thorn  be  set? 


41 1  love  him,  love  him,"  in  her  eager  ear 

The  small  bird  sings  it,  brightly  fluttering  by  ; 

Or,  when  she  wanders  by  the  ocean  drear, 
The  billows  moan  it,  and  the  winds  reply. 


When  she  believes  he  loves  her  in  return, 
The  summer  days  a  splendor  more  serene 

Are  gemmed  with,  and  the  nights  more  lovely  burn, 
While  stars,  like  golden  hearts,  throb  large  and  keen. 


When  she  believes  he  doth  not  love  her  —  oh  ! 

The  night  is  not  so  gloomy  as  the  day, 
Because  with  day  her  mind's  worst  shadows  go, 

And  sleep  with  dreams  her  anguish  can  allay. 


(53) 


But  he  hath  spoken  —  oh  !  the  golden  tongue, 
Oh  !  jewel  words,  forever  to  be  worn  ! 

He  loves  her :  he  hath  said  it  —  or  hath  sung, 
For  speech  is  music  on  this  happy  morn. 


Away  with  doubts,  away  with  fears,  make  room ! 

Alas  !  the  world  is  narrow  for  such  bliss  : 
One  life  is  narrower  still  to  hold  the  bloom, 

The  infinite  flower,  of  that  first  double  kiss  ! 


Sappho  is  crowned  so  tall  with  happiness, 
She  cannot  stoop  to  sing  as  erst  she  sang : 

To  voice  her  secret  joy  would  make  it  less  ; 
To  set  it  to  a  tune  would  be  a  pang, 


Because  't  would  seem  to  limit  it,  and  so 
In  Phaon's  arms  she  lets  the  moments  fly, 

Each  night  her  passion  gaining  in  its  glow, 
Each  day  her  worship  soaring  still  more  high. 


But  the  hour  comes  that  comes  with  certain  pace 
To  all  things  human,  be  they  glad  or  sad : 

There  is  a  shadow  on  her  Phaon's  face  ; 
His  voice  forgets  the  tender  tones  it  had. 


(54) 


Yet  still  he  seeks  her  side,  and,  cruelly  kind, 
Lingers,  —  and  so  hope  lingers,  —  and  she  tries 

With  strange,  new  fancies  to  enmesh  his  mind, 
E'en  as  she  dons  new  robes  to  snare  his  eyes. 


But  the  hour  comes  that  comes  with  certain  pace, 
And  Phaon  comes  not  to  the  trysting-tree  ! 

His  heart  is  tangled  in  a  newer  grace  — 
Another  face,  perhaps,  more  fair  than  she. 


What  then,  to  lure  him  back,  shall  she  attempt  — 
Poor  Queen  of  Song,  still  eager  to  be  slave 

Of  one  light  man  who  never  could  have  dreamt 
What  an  immensity  of  love  she  gave? 


"  Yea,  I  will  sing  some  world-compelling  song, 
My  long-neglected  lute  I  will  retake." 

Alas  !  her  spirit's  discord  is  too  strong : 

The  music's  heart,  like  hers,  can  only  break. 


"  Thou,  too,  art  false  !  Down,  down,  false  lute  !"  she  cries 
"  If  from  thy  secret  chambers  of  delight 

I  cannot  win  one  song,  how  vain  my  sighs 
Would  be  to  summon  Phaon  to  my  sight ! 


(55) 


"  Gone  is  my  gift  —  my  magic  is  o'erspelled  : 
O  thou,  dear  Goddess  of  the  silver  bow, 

Let  now  my  grievous  misery  be  quelled  : 
To  ease  this  heart  I  pray  thee  overthrow 


"  This  brain  with  one  swift  arrow  !     Goddess  pure, 
Most  glorious  Moon,  mother  of  dreams,  be  kind  ; 

Since  for  this  woe  there  be  no  earthly  cure, 

Rain  down  a  heavenly  madness  on  my  mind !  " 


The  goddess  hears  her  and  in  pity  bends, 
Remembering  Latinos  and  Endymion  : 

Swifter  than  lightning  is  the  beam  she  sends, 
And  lo  !  a  shade  on  Sappho's  mind  is  thrown. 


But  her  dark  eyes  flash  brighter  than  before, 

And  loud  she  sings — so  loud  that,  stunned  with  fright, 

In  the  dense  bosk  the  nightingales  no  more 

With  thick,  precipitate  song  o'erpraise  the  night. 


A  shade  on  Sappho's  mind,  and  now,  and  now, 
As  if  in  symbol  of  high  sympathy, 

A  cloud  is  gathering  on  heaven's  azure  brow 
From  veils  of  vapor  that  have  left  the  sea. 


(56) 


Louder  she  sings  and,  singing,  blindly  takes 

A  little  goat-path  up  the  precipice 
At  whose  rough  base  the  angry  ocean  breaks 

With  a  long  rolling  roar  and  then  a  seething  hiss. 


See  now  !  she  climbeth  to  the  topmost  crag : 
'Twixt  crag  and  cloud  she  poiseth  like  a  bird, 

Her  long,  dark  locks  out-floating  like  a  flag  : 
Her  bosom  panting  like  a  racer  spurred. 


The  sacred  fury  bubbles  to  her  mouth  ; 

From  that  divinest  of  all  human  throats, 
Sweet  as  a  honeyed  zephyr  of  the  south, 

Loud  as  a  silver  clarion,  come  the  notes : 


"  Lo  !  I  am  She  who  sprang  from  the  deep  sea 
My  car,  a  pearl,  was  drawn  by  rival  doves, 

And,  like  the  play  of  little  flames,  round  me 
Gamboled  a  roseate  cloud  of  baby  Loves : 


"Precocious  Cupids,  armed  with  quip  and  jest, 

To  tease  the  senses  of  humanity  ; 
But  ah  !  my  sleep  in  the  sea's  womb  was  best  — 

Was  best  for  mortals  and,  most  sure,  for  me. 


(57) 


"  For,  when  deep  calleth  unto  deep,  above 
Imagination  must  the  tempest  soar, 

And,  when  the  very  Queen  of  Love  doth  love, 
The  peace  of  gods  deserts  her  evermore. 


"  So  I,  who  was  a  goddess  yesterday, 

Am  now  a  feather  for  the  breath  of  Fate ; 

Dead  is  my  lover,  dead  and  gone  away 

Down  through  the  wide,  the  ever-open  gate. 


"  Then  let  me  go,  because  I  cannot  die, 

Back  to  the  dreamful  womb  from  whence  I  sprang ; 
O  Mother,  Mother  Ocean !  look,  I  fly 

Theevvards  to  solve  me  of  this  earth-born  pang." 


A  flash  of  eyes  —  or  is  it  lightning  now? 

A  tossing  of  white  arms  —  or  is  it  spray? 
And  Sappho  crowns  no  more  the  crag's  dark  brow; 

Her  beauty,  like  a  dream,  hath  passed  away. 


Then  from  the  cradling  waves  ascends  a  sigh, 
Half  pain,  half  joy :  the  dolphins  in  their  leap 

Pause,  and  the  sea-mews  pipe  a  puny  cry 

Against  the  thunders  gathering  o'er  the  deep  ; 

But  Sappho,  free  from  dreams,  now  sleeps  the  sleep. 


(58) 


FACE    TO    FACE. 

Idling,  not  long  ago,  upon  the  street 

They  named  for  him  who  was  our  country's  sire 
In  the  brave  town  where  Wit  and  Wisdom  meet 

Daily  —  for  human  freedom  to  conspire  — 

My  vagrant  glance  within  a  bookstore  spied 

Two  portraits  —  one,  of  him  whose  mummied  clay, 

With  dark  devices  of  rare  spices  dried, 
Science  identified  the  other  day. 

Rameses,  Pharaoh  —  many  names  had  he 

And  many  slaves  toiled  hard  to  rear  his  tomb, 

Pyramidal,  'twixt  the  Nile's  fertility 

And  the  sad,  billowy  desert's  silvery  gloom. 

The  other  portrait  was  the  homely  face 

Of  him  whose  pen-stroke  made  a  nation  free 

And  raised  to  civic  rank  an  alien  race, 
Dark  heritors  of  a  centuried  slavery. 


(59) 


Lincoln  and  Pharaoh  !  Was  it  chance  alone, 
Or  some  design  behind  the  shopman's  hand 

By  which  their  lithographs  were  quaintly  thrown 
Together,  for  a  contrast  strangely  grand  ? 

For  these  two  faces  typify,  indeed, 
Two  forces,  ever  warring  in  thy  soul, 

O  Man  —  strange  earthworm  of  material  greed, 
Mysterious  moth  who  dream'st  a  starry  goal  I 

Nay,  more  :  these  faces  typify,  besides, 

The  powers  of  Progress  and  Conservatism, 

That  make  the  nations  rise  and  fall  in  tides 

Forward  and  backward  on  Time's  dark  abysm. 

But  of  the  men  themselves  what  may  we  say, 
Since  Pentaur's  verse  on  Luxor's  pictured  wall 

Sufficeth  Pharaoh's  fame,  and  Lowell's  lay 
Of  Lincoln's  greatness  hath  so  well  said  all  — 

Save  this :  One  reared  an  altar  unto  Fame, 
Cemented  by  the  sweat  and  blood  of  men ; 

The  other  to  earth's  highest  office  came 
To  widen  all  men's  liberty  —  and  then, 

To  fall  a  victim  to  a  madman's  hate, 
Just  as  his  country  rose  again,  sublime, 

Beautiful,  though  ensanguined  !     Oh  !  strange  fate ! 
O  most  pathetic  mystery  of  all  time  ! 


(60) 


IMMORTAL. 
[September,  1881.] 

O  Music,  break  thine  heart 
In  notes  that  tremble  and  part — 
Tremble  and  part  forever ; 
Since  to  the  Silent  Land 
Hath  gone  a  pilgrim  grand 

To  come  back  never. 

Into  the  Unknown  Dark 
Man  vanisheth  like  a  spark  : 

But,  like  a  star  supernal, 
Love  fills  the  vast  abyss 
With  the  echo  of  Earth's  last  kiss  — 
A  kiss  eternal ! 

The  sun  sets  —  to  arise 
Brighter,  in  bluer  skies  : 

Man  dies,  while  Nature  liveth 
Despair  or  Doubt  are  ours 
Of  the  very  fruits  and  flowers 

This  one  life  giveth. 


(61) 


The  reality  doth  seem 
So  pitiful  to  the  dream, 

The  dream  so  false  by  fleetness, 
That  we  who  live  for  life 
Find  it  unworth  the  strife, 

E'en  at  full  sweetness. 

But  he,  our  pilgrim  grand, 
Into  the  Silent  Land 

Where  steals  no  pain  or  passion, 
Found  life  a  thing  sublime, 
And  to  the  courts  of  Time 

Set  a  new  fashion. 

His,  not  to  idly  muse, 

And  the  world's  work  refuse  : 

But  his  to  lead  the  van  on, 
Either  in  halls  of  state 
Or  in  the  fields  of  fate, 

Where  speak  the  cannon. 

Martyred  1     Yet  not  in  vain, 
Since  by  his  death  we  gain 

With  God  a  fresh  communion  : 
Closer,  for  tears  that  dim 
The  eyes  which  looked  to  him, 

Has  grown  our  Union. 

Therefore,  break  not  thine  heart, 
O  Music,  but  depart 

And  seek  the  shadowy  portal, 
Taking  to  him  the  rare 
Promise  that  here,  as  there, 

He  is  immortal ! 


(62) 


FRAGMENTS. 

Only  by  those  who  have  past 

Through  storms  that  blind  the  sun 

Can  a  soul  of  light  be  gained  at  last 
And  a  crown  of  calm  be  won. 


Shadow  of  smoke  upon  running  water  — 
How  it  symbols  the  Life  of  man, 

Pain  his  mother,  Sorrow  his  daughter, 
Work  his  wife,  since  the  world  began  ! 

Nay,  how  filmy  our  present  vision  !  •) 
Deeper  gaze  through  the  river's  run  ! 

From  dark  trance  into  bright  transition 
Dances  Life,  like  a  mote  i'  the  sun. 


Like  the  twin  miracles  of  dawn  and  sunset, 

Which  in  reality  are  only  one, 
Are  the  twin  mysteries  of  birth  and  dying :  — 

When  Life  ends  here,  then  elsewhere  'tis  begun. 


(63) 


IN     VICTORIS     HUGONIS    MEMORIAM 


"  II  poete  s'en  va  dans  les  champs; 
II  admire,  il  adore." 

CONTEMPLATIONS  DE  VICTOR  HUGO. 


Into  the  field  the  poet  goes 

To  admire  and  to  adore  ; 
Scents  he  many  a  wilding  rose  ; 

Hears  the  brooks  their  laughters  pour  ; 
Hears  the  mating  birds  propose  ; 
And  his  deep  heart  overflows 

Into  music  more  and  more  ; 

Therefore  swifter  than  before  — 
Oh  !  how  swift  each  fond  heavt  knows  — 
Into  the  field  the  poet  goes. 


Into  the  field  the  poet  goes 

And  his  eyes  have  happy  teais 
For  the  trysting-place  he  nears 

Where  a  maiden  like  a  rose, 
Like  a  brook  and  like  a  bird, 
Waits  to  list  his  loving  lore  ; 

Trembles  for  the  moment,  when, 
All  her  heart  with  rapture  stirred, 
She  shall  crown  him  evermore, 

She  shall  kiss  him  King  of  men ; 
So,  too  joyous  for  a  word, 

Flushed  like  summer  just  at  close, 

Into  the  field  the  poet  goes. 


(64) 


III. 

Into  the  field  the  poet  goes 
To  admire  and  to  adore 

And  the  heaven  a  lover  knows 
Goeth  with  him  evermore. 

In  the  music  of  his  heart 

All  things  take  a  choral  part  — 

Birds  and  brooks  and  booming  bees 
And  the  sisterhood  of  trees, 
Wavering  to  a  wooing  breeze  ; 
So,  a  higher  heaven  to  seize, 

With  a  face  that  gleams  and  glows 

Into  the  field  the  poet  goes. 

IV. 

Into  the  field  the  poet  goes 

With  the  key  of  Nature's  door  ; 
But,  some  day,  to  flower  that  blows, 
Bird  that  mates  and  brook  that  flows, 

Or  to  lips  of  loving  lore, 
With  a  face  that  gleams  and  glows 
He  returneth  nevermore ; 
For,  with  dark  plumes  waving  o'er 
Faces  faint  with  sorrow  sore, 
Silent,  to  his  first  repose, 
To  a  deep  sleep  under  snows, 
Or  to  dreams  beneath  the  rose, 
Into  the  field  the  poet  goes. 

(L'ENVOI.) 

Sisters,  brothers  of  the  rose, 

Maids  and  men  of  roseate  blood, 

Hearts  that  summer  overflows 
With  her  rich  and  radiant  flood 


(65) 


Of  new  hope,  new  love,  new  life, 
Or  of  old  love  grown  more  sweet, 
All  whose  lips  in  longing  meet  — 

Though  with  rhymes  ye  be  not  rife, 
Though  ye  sing  no  sounding  songs, 

Though  ye  gain  no  fadeless  fame, 
Poetry  to  ye  belongs  ; 

Ye  are  poets  —  by  the  same 
Token  of  devoted  life 

As  my  Hugo,  and  as  he, 

Safe  from  past  and  present  strife, 

Shall  the  future's  monarch  be  ; 

So  may  ye,  with  faith's  repose, 
Follow  past  the  bound  of  breath 
Where,  to  kiss  all-amorous  Death, 

Into  the  field  the  poet  goes. 


FREDERICK    III. 

Mortuum,    Imperatorl    tt    Salutamus. 

Not  that  thou  wert  a  King !     We  hate  the  name, 

We  whose  rich  blood  on  Marston  Moor  was  poured, 
We  whose  begetters  followed  Hampdcn's  sword, 

That  sacred  symbol  of  avenging  flame  ; 

We  whose  great-grandsires  put  King  George  to  shame  ; 
Whose  grandsires  made  proud  England  yield  the  sea  J 
Whose  fathers  died  that  all  men  might  be  free  ; 

We  —  among  nations  the  most  brave  and  great  — 
Despite  thou  wert  a  King,  bow  down  to  thee 
Our  haughty  heads,  O  Frederick,  because, 

With  superb  calmness  facing  a  black  fate, 
Dying,  thou  didst  essay  to  make  thy  laws 

Less  cruel  and  thy  people's  life  more  dear  — 

Therefore  we  lay,  O  King,  a  heart-rose  on  thy  bier. 


(63) 


TO    WENDELL    PHILLIPS 

Fanatic  !  —  in  whose  eyes 

The  tears  each  day  would  rise 

For  woes  that  were  not  thine  ; 

Fanatic  1  —  on  whose  brow 

Victory,  written  now 

In  Fame's  eternal  shine, 
Maketh  to  us  —  a  sign  ! 

Sounding  the  soul's  alarm, 
Thine  was  the  voice  to  charm 

E'en  serpents  of  their  hiss ; 
Thine  the  lift  eyes  whose  light, 
Like  lightning  late  at  night, 
Forespoke  the  radiant  kiss 
That  fills  the  Dawn  with  bliss, 

O  great  soul,  rapt  away 

From  out  our  sight  for  aye, 
But  not  from  out  our  ken, 

Thy  magic  was  no  myth  ; 

A  spell  to  conjure  with 

Thy  name  remains,  as  when 
Thou  spakest  among  men  1 

For,  wheresoever  Wealth 
And  Caste  by  force  or  stealth 

Essay  to  hold  in  fee 
The  minds  of  men,  thy  voice 
Condemns  the  cringer's  choice, 
Makes  brave  men  braver  be, 
Makes  free  men  still  more  free. 


(67) 


A    OJJEEN    AND    A    PIONEER. 

[Read  at  the  Breakfast  given  in  honor  of  Amelia  B.  Edwards,  the 
English  Novelist  and  Egyptologist,  by  the  New  England  Woman's  Press 
Association,  Boston,  November  20,  1889.] 

From  the  land  that  has  queened  it  for  ages, 

With  ever-extending  sway, 
By  the  spell  of  her  seers  and  sages, 
Writ  large  on  History's  pages, 
From  the  land  that  has  queened  it  for  ages, 

We  welcome  a  Queen  to-day. 

Not  Queen  by  a  coronation 

Of  custom  and  pride  of  place, 
But  hers  is  a  loftier  station  ; 
Yes,  hers  is  an  elevation, 
And  a  spirit-coronation, 

That  elevates  all  the  race. 

For,  not  content  with  the  pleasure 

Which  her  graceful  novels  lend, 
To  gather  up  Learning's  treasure 
By  a  sacrifice  of  leisure, 
She  hath  reckoned  a  sweeter  pleasure, 

Since  it  serveth  a  nobler  end. 

Yet  not  alone  do  her  splendid 

Labors  for  learning  count ; 
By  women  who  have  ascended 
Is  the  woman-sphere  extended, 
And  the  average  grows  more  splendid, 

As  night  with  the  stars  that  mount. 


(68) 


Yea,  by  such  lives  laborious 

Is  quicker  shapen  the  plan 
Of  the  day,  when  woman  glorious 
Shall  arise  —  arise  victorious  — 
No  longer  the  slave  laborious, 

Or  the  tempting  toy  of  man  ! 

And  it  totters  —  that  wrong  to  woman, 
By  the  barbarous  ages  piled, 

That  Pyramid  inhuman, 

Abhorred  by  every  true  man, 

Which  presseth  down  the  woman, 
And  even  the  growing  child. 

And  oh  !  of  that  ancient  slavery 
Not  alone  shall  the  life  outrun, 

For,  likewise  losing  its  bravery, 

And  branded  as  demon-knavery, 

Man's  present  industrial  slavery 

Shall  cease  from  under  the  sun. 

Yea,  the  worse  than  Dantean  vision 
Of  children  in  store  and  mill 

Shall  cease,  and  oh,  fair  fruition  ! 

Full  half  of  that  new  condition, 

That  era  of  juster  vision, 

Will  be  owing  to  woman's  will ! 

And  so,  from  the  land  that  for  ages 

Has  queened  it,  we  welcome  here 
For  the  Past  lit  up  by  her  pages, 
For  the  Future  her  life  presages, 
From  the  land  that  has  queened  it  for  ages, 
A  Queen  and  a  Pioneer. 


(69) 


LINES    TO    JULIA    WARD    HOWE 

[Read  at  the  Celebration  of  Her  Seventieth   Birthday.] 

Seventy  years  old  —  Nay,  madam,  'tis  not  so, 
For  in  the  apt  phrase  of  your  daughter's  tongue 

The  hearts  that  know  you  do  most  surely  know 
For  seventy  splendid  years  you  have  been  young. 

In  truth,  your  life  reglimpsing,  it  would  seem 
That  you  right  early  by  some  magic  skill 

Found  the  fair  fountain  of  De  Leon's  dream, 
And  feel  its  crystal  inspiration  still. 

What  is  the  magic  —  what  the  secret  power 
That  keeps  the  smile  of  youth  upon  your  face, 

Stays  and  delays  "  the  inevitable  hour," 
Making  each  added  year  an  added  grace  ? 

You  would  not  tell  us,  if  perchance  you  could, 
Because  your  modesty  would  make  no  claim, 

As  we  have  heard  you  in  self-judging  mood 
To  others  give  the  credit  of  your  fame. 

So  we  must  tell  you  through  this  medium  poor 
The  real  secret  of  your  youth  today, 

And  why  your  fame  in  freshness  will  endure 
Long  as  our  language  on  the  world  hath  sway. 

Not  because  birth  and  beauty  have  been  yours 
And  yours  the  gift  of  music  and  of  song ; 

But  this,  that  you  have  spent  your  richest  stores 
To  help  humanity  your  whole  life  long. 


(70) 


When  the  land  languished  for  a  battle-hymn 
And  in  defeat  her  sons  began  to  lag, 

Yours  was  the  voice  in  morning's  twilight  dim  — 
A  lifting  breeze  for  Freedom's  drooping  flag ! 

And  when  the  final  fetter  had  been  riven, 
And  the  black  chattel  made  forever  free, 

Not  sated  with  the  one  chance  life  had  given, 
You  sought  for  more  to  lift  humanity. 

Fearless  of  ostracism  by  Fashion's  clan, 
Ready  your  social  empire  to  resign, 

You  claimed  for  woman  equal  place  with  man 
By  might  of  brain  and  right  of  heart  divine. 

And,  though  not  yet  that  battle  has  been  won, 
It  needs  no  prophet  to  discern  it  clear, 

For  in  Time's  glass  the  deep  sands  as  they  run 
Brighten,  like  your  deep  life,  with  every  year. 

And  in  that  day  that  some  now  here  shall  see 
Tender  and  beautiful  as  the  feet  of  Peace 

Upon  the  mountains  —  in  that  time  to  be, 
When  every  form  of  slavery  shall  cease  : 

When  in  Wealth's  prisons,  factories  vast  and  vile, 
No  growing  girl  shall  toil  for  daily  bread  — 

No  childing  woman,  with  a  bitter  smile, 
Ask  —  "  Is  it  not  far  better  to  be  dead  ?" 

When  our  industrial  system,  most  absurd 
As  well  as  cruel,  shall  be  put  away, 

Your  name,  O  Woman,  will  be  louder  heard 
As  one  who  worked  to  speed  that  golden  day. 


(71) 


ONE    OF    THE    LOWLY. 

Splendidly  dark  and  darkly  splendid 
E'en  like  ebony  seems  her  hair, 

And  the  hues  in  her  deep  eyes  blended 
Would  drive  a  Raphael  to  despair ; 

Violet  now  as  a  tropical  ocean 

Under  the  noon-day's  vertical  glint ; 

Then  again,  at  some  soft  emotion, 
Softening  down  to  a  turquoise  tint. 

But  her  eyes,  though  bevond  expression, 
Suffer  a  strange  and  superb  eclipse 

And  lose  their  sceptre  of  soul-possession, 
When  compared  with  her  luscious  lips. 

Ah  !  those  lips  were  by  Cupid  fashioned 
Just  for  kisses  and  joyous  life  — 

Kisses  pure,  though  they  grow  impassioned, 
E'en  as  a  sweetheart  becomes  a  wife. 

Kisses  only  for  one  man  treasured, 

Hoarded  for  him  till  he  comes  —  and  then 

Poured  on  him  with  such  love  unmeasured 
He's  the  richest  of  love-crowned  men. 


(72) 


Ah  !  those  lips  !     For  one  moment's  pressure 

Gladly  a  poet  his  life  might  pay, 
For  nothing  dreamier,  brighter,  fresher, 

Ever  gladdened  a  poet's  way. 

But  who  's  this  maid  so  above  description  , 
Some  Queen  or  wonderful  social  belle, 

With  art  as  deep  as  the  famed  Egyptian 

Who  shook  e'en  Rome  with  her  dazzling  spell? 

Ay,  who  's  this  maiden  with  ebon  tresses 
And  eyes  o'erflowing  with  tender  lore 

And  lips  for  kisses?     Nay,  spare  your  guesses  ! 
She  's  only  a  girl  in  a  candy-store. 

Oh,  what  a  wretchedly  lame  conclusion ! 

Only  a  girl  in  a  candy-store  ! 
Oh  !  what  a  climax  of  disillusion  — 

Nay,  my  brothers  —  she  's  something  more  ! 

All  day  long,  to  escape  starvation, 

Think  of  the  things  her  soul  must  bear, 

Looks  and  words  that  are  profanation 

From  rich  old  rakes  that  come  gloating  there ; 

Or  some  gay  youth  of  a  higher  station 
Perhaps  bends  on  her  such  ardent  eyes 

That  she  almost  yields  to  the  fascination, 
And  takes  for  truth  his  enamored  lies ; 

Or,  fate  still  worse,  her  grace  finds  favor 
In  her  gross  employer's  muddy  sight, 

And  the  cruel,  capitalistic  slaver 
Becomes  familiar,  as  if  by  right. 


(73) 


Can  she  resent  it  and  seek  another 

And  safer  station  on  life's  hard  stage? 

No,  for  she  now  has  a  poor,  sick  mother 
Whose  life  depends  on  her  paltry  wage. 

These  must  she  suffer,  and  things  more  cruel 
From  the  hand  of  commerce-hardened  man, 

And  still  remain  an  unsullied  jewel 

'Mid  the  world's  garbage  —  if  she  can. 

But  stop  !     Are  we  whom  women  nourish 
From  babyhood  weak  up  to  manhood  strong 

So  vile  in  the  main  that  such  wrongs  must  flourish, 
Or  is  the  system,  we  live  by,  wrong? 

Is  the  present  system  right,  my  brothers, 
Whereby  we  people  who  work  all  day 

See  the  fruit  of  our  toil  become  another's, 
While  we  get  only  the  rind  for  pay? 

Must  it  be  as  it  was  in  the  desert  olden 
Ere  came  the  wealth-denouncer,  Christ, 

When  to  the  Jews  an  image  golden, 
A  half-grown  beast,  for  a  god  sufficed? 

Must  it  always  be  so,  O  social  scholar, 
Economist,  with  the  furrowed  brow  ? 

Yes,  there  is  no  king  like  the  dollar, 

And  the  calf  of  gold  is  full-grown  now. 

The  many  must  work  forever  steady 

That  the  few  may  be  rich  ;  unless,  in  troth, 

Our  industrial  system  is  wrong  and  is  ready 
To  be  replaced  by  a  nobler  growth. 


(74) 


But  down  with  the  doubt !  Why,  it 's  atheistic 
To  hint  that  the  system  which  men  adore 

Needs  a  turn  from  the  cranks  that  are  socialistic 
It 's  perfect  now,  and  it  can't  be  more. 

And  yet,  perchance,  there's  an  anarchistic 
Germ  in  that  girl  at  her  heart's  red  core  ; 

But  hush,  O  Poet,  your  song  so  mystic  ; 
She  's  only  a  girl  in  a  candy-store  ! 

Sing,  if  you  will,  of  her  wondrous  beauty, 
But  you  mustn't  hint  she  is  something  more. 

Not  sermon,  but  song,  is  a  poet's  duty, 
And  —  she's  only  a  girl  in  a  candy-store. 


TO    JAMES    WHITCOMB    RILEY. 

Sweetest  of  all  our  singers,  though  thy  face 
I  have  not  seen  and  may  not  for  much  time, 

Across  the  sea  of  music-haunted  space 
I  send  thee  tribute  in  a  boat  of  rhyme  : 
No  ponderous  argosy  of  song  sublime, 

But  a  light  galley  this,  with  fourteen  oars  ; 
And  yet  a  freight  most  precious  doth  it  hold, 

Tears  brighter  than  the  pearls  from  Ceylon  shores, 
Set  quaintly  in  deep  smiles  more  bright  than  gold  ! 

0  singer  of  the  Prairie,  sunny-souled, 
Ten  fameless  years  ago  I  hailed  thee  first 

As  the  new  poet  men  with  love  would  know 
Some  day  ;  and  so,  now  Fame  hath  on  thee  burst, 

1  bask  me,  prophet,  in  thy  glory's  glow. 


(75) 


OX    MY    COUCH. 

This  is  the  way 

I  shall  lie,  some  day, 

With  head  thrown  back  and  folded  hands, 
Silent,  even  to  Love's  demands, 
In  the  peace  that  no  man  understands 

Till  it  comes  on  him  like  a  curious  crown, 
Pressing  the  rebel  nature  down 

To  a  most  strange  humility 
That  is  never  found  in  the  realm  of  breath  — • 

In  the  field  of  Love's  fertility  — 
Never  dreamed  of,  indeed,  till  Death, 
The  real,  the  regal  Socialist, 
Our  lips  with  his  equal  kiss  hath  kissed. 

This  is  the  way  —  yes,  the  very  way 

I  shall  lie  in  the  sleep  that  hath  no  day 

Of  resurrection  certain  quite 

Save  in  dream  of  lover  or  eremite. 
The  pallid  priest  of  a  passing  faith 
May  fool  the  rabble,  when  he  saith, 
With  upward  vision  and  bated  breath, 
In  Mystery's  chamber  :  "  There  is  no  Death." 


(76) 


But  we  know  better  —  we,  who  lie 
On  beds  of  torture,  thirsty  to  die  : 

We,  brothers  of  Caliban,  all  whose  lives 
Have  been  deflowered  to  enrich  the  hives 
Of  nonchalant  Prospero,  unto  whom 
The  priest  may  promise  beyond  the  tomb 
A  life  of  still  more  golden  bloom 
If  he  will  —  for  what  care  we,  who  lie 
On  beds  of  torture,  hungry  to  die  1 

Yet  who  can  be  certain  ?     The  veriest  dunce 

Is  a  peer  of  the  wisest  when  the  mind 
Such  an  infinite  mystery  confronts  ; 

And  as  good  a  reason  might  be  assigned 
For  living  again,  as  for  living  once  ; 

Though  sure  there  was  never  a  reason  why 
We  Calibans  ever  under  the  sky 

Should  have  opened  our  eyes  to  be  mocked  by  the  glow 
Of  the  golden  glory  of  Prospero. 

But  this  is  the  way  we  all  shall  lie  — 
Prospero,  even  as  you  and  I, 
O  brother  Caliban,  and  the  sky 
Through  which  men  pray  gives  no  reply 
But  an  empty  smile  to  our  question,  why? 
So,  perhaps,  my  brother,  Death  amounts 
To  a  general  squaring  of  accounts  ; 
And,  after  all,  in  the  whirl  of  suns, 

In  the  limitless,  luminous  abyss, 
What  matter  to  man,  if  he  lives  but  once, 

Though  there  may  be  another  life  than  this ; 
Yet  whether  he  be  in  his  little  span 
A  Prospero  or  a  Caliban, 
WThat  matters  it  all  in  sooth,  to  a  man, 

If,  after  it  all,  he  must  lie  some  day 
In  this  very  way? 


(77) 


FREDRICKSBURG,    '62. 

'Twas  the  grandest  war  that  ever  was  known 
To  which  men  eagerly  went, 
Not  on  conquest  or  glory  bent, 

But  to  fight  for  a  cause  that  was  not  their  own  : 
To  die  that  others  might  be  free 
And  the  beautiful  eyes  of  Liberty  see 
No  shadow  of  Slavery  evermore, 
From  Massachusetts'  resounding  shore 
To  where  Mississippi  melts  at  length, 
Like  a  giant  who  hath  spent  his  strength, 
In  the  splendid,  sapphirine  waves  that  flow 
From  the  silver  sands  of  Mexico. 

Oh  !  loud  let  the  trumpet  of  Fame  be  blown  ! 

Down  to  the  dust  went  a  centuried  sin  : 
'Twas  the  grandest  war  that  ever  was  known, 

And  one  of  the  hardest  fights  therein 
Was  the  battle  of  Fredricksburg,  '62  ; 
Ah  !  that  was  the  year  the  confederate  crew 

Seemed  most  near  their  game  to  win. 
That  was  the  epoch  when  Beauregard, 
Jackson  and  Johnston  pressed  us  hard  ; 

When  Stuart's  cavalry,  just  for  fun, 
Galloped  right  'round  McClellan's  camp, 

And  our  General  did  not  fire  a  gun 
Their  revelry  to  damp. 

But  ah  !  how  quickly  the  golden  sun 
Tamed  down  to  a  flickering  lamp 
In  that  battle  of  Fredricksburg,  '62, 
When  the  Southerners'  grape  and  canister  flew 


(78) 


Hitherward,  thitherward,  everywhere  — 
Till  a  swirl  of  smoke  was  the  lurid  air, 
And  as  devil-music  from  halls  of  Hell 
The  rival  thunders  of  shot  and  shell, 
Like  billows  of  ocean,  swelled  and  fell. 

But  forward,  forward,  the  Twenty-first 

Massachusetts  Regiment  went ; 
What  tho'  shells  around  them  burst, 

Tearing  many  a  ghastly  rent 
In  the  serried  columns — still  they  close, 
As  calm  as  a  lover  who  plucks  a  rose : 

And  onward  they  press,  and  still  they  stem 

The  sea  of  lightning  that  leaps  at  them. 
Ay,  not  a  man  of  them  holds  his  breath, 
Tho'  the  living  are  seen  but  by  flashes  of  death, 

Till  they  reach  the  spot  where  a  "  sunken  road  " 
Offers  the  aid  of  a  natural  trench  ; 

But  even  there  the  shells  explode 
With  a  sound  whose  echo  would  make  you  blench. 

If  you  happened  to  hear  it,  some  peaceful  day, 

Twenty  or  thirty  miles  away. 
But  just  as  that  "  sunken  road"  they  reach, 

Sergeant  Collins,  the  color-bearer, 
Falls  and  pours  like  a  wave  on  the  beach 

His  free  heart's  blood  —  a  libation  rarer 
Than  ever  was  offered  on  any  field, 
Where  the  cannon  of  Europe  yet  have  pealed. 

He  falls,  and  the  glorious  flag-staff  reels  ; 

Will  the  flag  fall  also  to  earth's  embrace? 
Not  so  ;  there's  an  Irish  lad  at  his  heels  : 

Sergeant  Plunket  leaps  to  his  place  ! 
Hurrah  !     The  flag  is  caught  and  waved 


(79) 


And  the  regiment's  march  is  rallied,  is  saved  I 

Sergeant  Plunket — an  Irish  boy, 
Who  left  a  shoe-bench  not  long  ago, 

Kissed  his  sweetheart,  his  pride  and  joy, 
And  rushed  to  battle  with  Freedom's  foe. 
See  !  how  he  waves  it  to  and  fro, 

That  glorious  flag  that  to  him  is  deal- 
As  the  hope  of  Ireland  and  the  world  — 
That  flag  that  shall  never  be  lowered  or  furled, 

While  the  soul  of  a  Plunket  lingers  here. 

But  hark  !  —  and  look  !     Another  shell 

Bursts  in  the  air  right  near, 
Drowning  the  terrible  Southern  yell 

And  the  Yankees'  charging  cheer. 
And  Plunket  falls,  and  the  banner  —  No  ! 

He  's  up  again,  tho'  both  hands  are  shot 
Clean  oft",  and  he  feels  his  life-blood  go, 

But  the  banner  falleth  not. 
Round  it  he  folds  his  handless  stumps 

In  a  last  and  vast  embrace, 
Till  another  man  to  the  rescue  jumps 

And  Plunket  falls  on  his  face  : 
But  how  hard  he  strained  it  to  his  heart, 

As  he  gave  it  a  good-by  kiss 
May  never  be  shown  by  the  painter's  art 

Or  a  common  rhyme  like  this  ; 
Yet  when  men  play  such  a  glorious  part 

What  matters  it,  tho'  they  miss 
A  country's  thanks?    Have  they  not,  instead, 

The  eternal  glow  of  a  deed  well  done 
Which  is  something  better  than  daily  bread 

Or  any  pension  under  the  sun  ? 


(80) 


And  yet,  if  that  quiet  Yankee  town, 

West  Boylston,  where  young  Plunket  threw 

Aside  one  day  the  unfinished  shoe  — 
If  that  fair  town  should  wish  to  crown 

Some  day  the  central  street  or  square 

With  a  hero's  figure,  a  statue  fair 

Of  snowy  marble  or  granite  gray ; 

Something  out  of  the  common  way, 
And  yet  which  the  commonest  passer-by 
Might  well  look  up  to  with  kindling  eye  ; 

Something  for  future  men  to  see 

And  thrill  to —  hadn't  it  better  be, 

No  General  grand,  with  lifted  hand, 

And  haughty  gesture  of  command, 
But  a  lad,  upholding  a  shattered  staff, 
With  handless  arms  —  and  no  epitaph  — 

Save  the  plain  name,  Plunket,  perhaps  would  do, 

Plunket  and  Fredricksburg,  '62. 


SYMPATHY. 

Only  by  those  who  have  grieved 
Is  perfection  of  soul  achieved  : 
Better  a  human  clod 

That  aches  with  the  load  of  life 
Than  a  calm,  Olympian  God 

Who  never  hath  suffered  strife  ! 


(81) 


ON    THE    BRINK. 

Lady,  at  whose  touch  I  tremble,  tingle  with  a  sacred  fire 
Fed  by  all  my  finest  feelings  of  most  delicate  desire  — 
Passion  pure  as  light,  yet  fire-like,  ever  leaping  high  and 
higher. 

Fairest,  though  for  thee  I  da're  not  yet  a  tenderer  title  seek  — 
Dare  not?      Nay,  the  sweet  word  "Darling,"  sometime, 

somehow  I  must  speak, 
Though  it  call  an  angry,  crimson  dawn  of  doom  upon  thy 

cheek : 

Dawn  of  doom  —  my  doom  —  so  be  it !  Better,  like  a  man, 

to  fail 

Than  to  linger  in  the  shadows  of  uncertainty  —  as  pale 
As  a  ghost  ere  resurrection  whom  old  grave-thoughts  still 

assail. 

I  will  speak  —  and  then  one  moment  may  o'erstar  my  night 

of  years, 

May  o'erflood  my  life's  long  desert  with  a  sea  of  happy  tears — 
Till  my  veins,  my  veins,  run  music  and  my  heart  its  echo 

hears. 

I  will  speak,  for  in  the  future  many  golden  days  may  hide, 
Slow  to  come,  but  yet  as  ready  as  the  kisses  of  a  bride, 
Days  of  tranquil,  tropic  weather  —  saunterings  by  the  sum 
mer  tide : 

Dreamings  in  the  mellow  moonlight  —  kisses  deep  and  long 

and  sweet, 

With  the  smile  of  God  refining  all  their  joyous,  human  hent, 
When  two  hearts,  long  hurt  and  humbled,  into  music  melt 

and  meet ; 


(  82) 


When  two  hearts,  long  tried  and  troubled,  sing  each  other 

into  rest 

Softer  than  the  death  of  lilies,  lip  to  lip  and  breast  to  breast, 
Both   caressed   and   both    caressing,  both   possessing   and 

possessed. 

Ah  !  what  days  of  pure  perfection  in  this  world  of  jarring 

powers, 

Ah !  what  spiritual  summer  purple  with  perpetual  flowers, 
What   a  life   indeed  worth   living,  O  my  Darling,  may  be 

ours  !  — 

If  we  only  let  Love  take  us,  wake  us  once  before  Death's 
gloom, 

Tune  our  tones  to  softer  singing,  light  our  lips  to  brighter 
bloom. 

Saturate  our  souls  with  sweetness,  give  our  noblest  long 
ings  room. 

Thrill  us,  fill  us,  lift  us,  gift  us  with  a  glory  and  a  grace, 
Fairer  than  the  flush  of  girlhood  —  rarer  than  a  Grecian 

face  — 
A  reality  so  royal  that  to  dream  were  commonplace ! 

Do  not  tremble  at  the  picture,  do  not  shrink  and  turn  and 

start 

From  a  poet's  fiery  worship,  from  the  tempest  of  his  heart ; 
He    from  earnest,  earliest  boyhood  has  been  loving  what 

thou  art. 

And  one  night  in  dreams  thou  gavest  with  thy  lips  such 
maddening  bliss 

That  he  fancies  thou  wilt  give  him  in  some  world  a  crown 
ing  kiss  ; 

Ah!  the  bitter-sweet  of  dreaming  !  In  some  world?  Why 
not  in  this  ? 


(83) 


AT    PARTING. 

Just  one  more  kiss,  my  darling, 
One  long,  forgiving  kiss  ; 

Since  we  must  part  forever, 
Sure,  you  can  give  me  this  : 

One  long,  long  kiss  uniting 
As  by  a  bridge  of  bliss 

Dark  present  with  dim  future  — 
Sure,  you  can  give  me  this. 

Alas  !  my  love,  my  darling, 
How  long  ago  it  seems 

When  we  together  wandered 
Into  the  realm  of  dreams  ! 

But  now  that  realm  is  ruined 
There 's  little  more  to  say 

And  heedless  of  our  trouble 
The  great  world  wags  its  way. 

The  sun  still  shines  as  gaily, 
Now  we  no  more  are  one, 

As  when,  that  songful  summer, 
Our  love-dream  was  begun  ; 


(84) 


And  where  we  gathered  roses 

In  lanes  to  lovers  dear 
New  dreamers  of  the  old  dream 

Will  gather  them  this  year  ; 

And  then,  a  few  years  after, 

Upon  the  tender  turf, 
(Above  our  lonely  graves,  love, 

Parted  by  leagues  of  surf) 

New  pairs  of  lingering  lovers 
In  twilight's  hush  may  stay, 

Silent  as  we  below  them, 
A  moment  on  their  way  ; 

And  spelling  out  the  names,  love, 
Upon  each  lichened  stone 

May  wonder  if  we  had,  love, 
A  romance  like  their  own. 

So  one  more  kiss  I  pray  thee 

To  set  upon  the  past 
A  crown  of  such  perfection 

Its  light  must  always  last. 

One  crowning  kiss  —  ah!  sweetest, 
Now,  now,  returns  thy  heart 

In  this  and  this  to  mine,  love, 
And  so  —  we  will  not  part. 


(85) 


MASTODON-SAURUS. 

A  monster's  head  is  on  my  doorstep's  granite, 
F~*A  fleshless  Caliban,  yet  wondrous  tame  ; 
Sharp  snows  assail  it,  summer  breezes  fan  it, 
But  still  it  bides  the  same. 

Not  the  most  blinding  blizzard  of  Dakota 

Could  break  its  iron  slumber,  or  affect 
That  irony  of  silence  an  iota, 

Whereby  it  wrings  respect. 

My  friend,  the  man  of  science,  says  that  action 
Was  once  the  purpose  of  this  passive  stone  ; 
That  once,  in  this  odd  lump  of  petrifaction, 
Thought  had  a  towering  throne. 

Although  that  Thought,  like  many  a  well-throned  tyrant, 

(My  communistic  scientist  affirms) 
Was  not  to  any  higher  food  aspirant 

Than  fruit,  instead  of  worms. 

Which  fruit  this  elephantine  iguana 

Plucked   from    strange   trees,  and   then,  with    steaming 

breath, 

Lay  gorged  to  sleep  along  some  hot  savanna, 
A  shining  mark  for  death. 

Ay,  myriad  foes  besieged  this  lazy  fellow  — 

This  huge,  mammiferous,  pachydermatous  fool  — 
Who  only  cared  for  fruitage  moist  and  mellow, 
Soft  grass  and  waters  cool ; 


(86) 


And  who,  like  man  too  often,  half  in  shadow 

And  half  in  sunshine  lolling,  felt  the  lure 
Of  sex  alone  nor  sought  an  Eldorado 

Of  Thought  or  Beauty  pure. 

"  But  yet,"  my  friend,  the  scientist,  continues, 

Tapping  with  fine  French  toe  the  stony  head, 
"  Through  this  dull  form  we  with  our  balanced  sinews 
And  soaring  minds  were  bred. 

"  Strange,  is  it  not?     And  I,  for  my  part,  wonder 

When,  in  the  evolution  now  called  Man, 
The  curious  claim  —  vain  flash  from  priestly  thunder  — 
Of  special  soul  began." 

"  Why,  as  for  that,  dear  dogmatist  of  science, 

Factor  of  facts  which  are  but  transient  things, 
You've  proven  (have  you  not?)  that  scaly  giants 
Rose  to  evolving  wings  : 

That  snake  turned  bird  whose  notes  of  loving  sweetness 

Were  hardly  hinted  in  the  rattling  scale 
With  which  the  hideous,  hissing  Incompleteness 
Grooved  out  a  slimy  trail. 

"  Now,  if  these  facts  of  yours  be  true  —  and  truly 

I  doubt  them  not,  for  they  are  comforting ; 
Since  they  imply  that  out  of  shapes  unruly 
Must  rise  a  ruling  thing:  — 

"A  regal  Power  with  purpose  on  his  forehead 
And  heart  so  large  it  claims  for  its  embrace 
(Although  its  ancestors  were  saurians  horrid) 
Eternal  time  and  space  : 


(87) 


"And  if,  my  friend,  this  onward,  upward  movement 

Has  been  since  Earth,  the  sun-evolved,  began  — 
It  seems  to  me  this  doctrine  of  improvement 
Need  not  stand  still  with  Man. 

u  For  if  'tis  easy  in  the  opening  portals 

Of  science  thus  man's  rise  from  slime  to  solve, 
'Tis  just  as  easy  to  suppose  from  mortals 
That  angels  may  evolve." 

Then  smiles  my  friend  and  answers  :   "  Think  how  vital 

Was  once  this  stony  head  :  it  had  a  brain, 
Which  to  its  loving  mate  could  make  recital 
Of  pleasure  and  of  pain. 

"  But  you  think  you  have  Soul,  the  poet's  lever, 

Although  your  ancestors,  the  reptile  crew, 
Had  none.     You  pride  yourself  on  mind,  tho'  fever 
Your  reason  can  undo. 

"  You  think  that  when  the  shadows  come  in  legions, 

And  your  bright  life  goes  out  like  my  cigar,  — 
Your  soul,  like  smoke,  will  rise  to  fairer  regions 
Where  joys  immortal  are." 

"  Nay,  friend,  I  push  no  claims  ;  but,  like  an  humble 

Scholar,  I  wait  till  my  great  Teacher  moves  : 
In  hope,  because  I  note,  though  still  men  stumble, 
Man  rises  and  improves. 

"  And  as  this  stone,  poor  head  of  saurian  order, 

Perchance  had  some  dreams  of  the  man  to  be  — 
So  I,  who  stand  on  Faith's  dim,  sunset  border, 

A  grander  dawn,  a  nobler  form  foresee." 


(88) 


TO    LESBIA. 

[From  the  Latin  of  "  Catullus."] 

So  you  ask  me,  Lesbia  darling, 
Like  yourself,  a  question  vain  : 

What's  the  number  of  your  kisses 
That  will  quench  my  thirsty  pain  ? 

Now,  if  you  would  learn  exactly 

The  addition's  rich  amount, 
All  the  sands  in  vast  Sahara, 

Love,  you  must  be  sure  to  count. 

Then,  if  you  that  sum  should  finish, 

Yet  another  would  arise  ; 
You  would  have  to  reckon  truly 

All  the  stars  in  all  the  skies  :  — 

All  the  stars  that  gleaming  ever, 
Smile  so  strangely  soft  and  bright 

On  the  furtive  lips  of  lovers 
In  the  dreamy  lull  of  night. 

Count  the  stars,  my  love,  my  darling ! 

Ah  !  your  labor  would  be  vain  ; 
I  should  merely  smile,  and  towards  you 

Pout  my  longing  lips  again. 


(89) 


THE    GRAND    ARMY    PARADE 

[Boston,  August   12,  1890.] 

I  stand  at  my  bannered  window 

And  watch  the  processional  file, 
Thousands  of  living  heroes,  — 

Each  face  a  triumphant  smile  ; 
And  my  heart  is  beating  proudly 

And  red  as  a  rose  of  June 
My  blood  is  singing  loudly 

To  Freedom's  onward  tune. 

When  sudden  over  the  pageant 

A  solemn  cloud  is  cast, 
And  jarring  the  joyous  music 

There  comes  an  icy  blast ; 
And  instead  of  the  living  heroes, 

In  chime  with  a  people's  cheers, 
I  behold  a  dear,  dead  hero, 

And  mine  eyes  are  filled  with  tears. 

I  have  to  turn  from  the  window ; 

I  can  hardly  bear  the  throng, 
Which  a  moment  before  did  thrill  me 

More  deep  than  a  poet's  song ; 
For  the  eyes  of  my  wondering  spirit 

Behold,  by  a  spirit  led, 
Liberty's  poet,  O'Reilly, 

Humanity's  soldier  —  dead  ! 


(90) 


Struck  down  in  his  prime  —  Ah  !  mystic, 

Beyond  all  guess  or  dream, 
The  will  of  the  Power  Eternal 

Must  aye  to  our  grieving  seem  : 
How  often,  ah  !  how  often, 

Under  the  patient  skies, 
The  base  man  lives  and  prospers, 

The  great  man  fails  and  dies  1 

But  he,  our  soldier-poet, 

Now  that  his  battle  's  done, 
He  would  not  have  us  weeping, 

For  sure  't  is  a  victory  won. 
His  life  has  been  a  triumph,  — 

Witness,  ye  shrinking  powers 
Of  tyrant  and  of  bigot !  — 

And  that  triumph,  it  is  ours. 

I  turn  again  to  my  window ; 

I  watch  the  radiant  throng ; 
And  it  seems  to  me  they  are  marching 

To  the  tune  of  O'Reilly's  song: 
And  well  they  may,  for  never 

Has  nobler  song  been  sung 
Than  came  like  flame  from  that  warm  heart — cold ; 

From  that  tuneful  —  silent  tongue. 

For  oh  !  he  loved  the  people, 

Regardless  of  race  or  creed, 
And  his  life,  it  was  the  garden 

Of  many  a  lovely  deed  ; 
And  wherever  our  future  heroes 

Press  on  to  out-trample  wrong, 
They  will  march  —  and  march  forever  — 

To  the  tune  of  O'Reilly's  song. 


(91) 


THE    GREAT    DIAMOND. 

"  Long  live  the  King  !  "  they  shouted  through  many  a  sunny 
street, 

With  clash  and  crash  of  cymbal,  with  shawm  and  timbrel 
sweet : 

But  in  a  twilight  chamber  and  in  a  purple  sheet 

Lay  one  man,  mute  as  marble,  whose  kingship  was  com 
plete. 

"  Long  live  the  King  —  the  new  King!"  the  people  thun 
dered  forth, 

Proving  with  fickle  favor  how  little  fame  is  worth  : " 

Fame  fading  as  a  flower  fades,  long  ere  the  blustering 
North 

Hath  shot  one  icy  arrow  against  the  Autumn  swarth. 

But  through  the  festive  tumult  one  creature  crept  along 
Who  only  heard,  with  heart  deep-stirred,  a  low,  funereal 

song; 
Who  only  saw,  with  freezing  awe,  the  white-robed,  priestly 

throng  — 
So  like  those  ghostly  candles  that  make  Death's  night  more 

strong ! 

One  only  in  the  city  whose  heart  gave  birth  to  tears, 
When  to  the  new  King's  crowning  the  people  rushed,  with 

cheers  :  — 
One  heart  which  on  the  music  sailed  back  the  stream  of 

years 
And  saw  the  dead  man  shining,  peerless,  above  his  peers. 


(92) 


So  this  one  heart  —  a  woman's  —  although  the  way  was  hard 
For  one  so  old  and  feeble,  now  bore  her  to  the  yard 
Of  the  far,  lonely  palace  where  lingered  priest  nor  bard, 
And  with  a  wondrous  jewel  she  bribed  the  single  guard. 

On,  through  the  balmy  garden,  this  woman  held  her  way 
And  climbed  the  porphyry  staircase  to  where  the  body  lay, 
To  her  unchanged  and  unestranged  by  Death's  or  Time's 

decay, 

For  the  King  had  kissed  her,  years  ago,  one  golden,  sum 
mer  day :  — 

One  royal,  summer  day,  when  he  and  she  were  young  and 
fair, 

The  man  had  kissed  her  and  passed  along,  leaving  the  rap 
ture  rare 

Of  a  King's  grace  on  a  peasant's  face,  and,  though  she  did 
not  dare 

In  life  to  seek  those  lips  again,  yet  Death  now  found  her  there. 

For,  whilst  with  kisses  of  endless  love  she  crowned  his 
brow  so  white, 

Over  the  eyes  of  that  peasant  crone  there  stole  an  equal  night, 

And  the  courtly  throng  who  returned  ere  long  reeled  back 
ward  in  affright 

To  behold  her,  dead,  by  the  dead  King's  bed,  with  her  eyes 
still  smiling  bright. 

How  came  she  there?    The  guard,  when  seized,  confessed 

and  showed  the  gem, 
And  the  curious  courtiers  stared  amazed,  for  its  beauty  o'er- 

mastered  them  ; 
And  even  the  new   King,  as   he  gazed,  felt  a   passion  he 

could  not  stem, 
For  never  had  such  a  glory  blazed  on  a  monarch's  diadem. 


(93) 


'Twas  a  jewel  white  as  an  infant's  soul,  that  holdeth  count 
less  hues, 

And  larger  than  any  rose  that  blows  save  those  that  enclose 
the  dews 

Which  angels  weep,  in  Paradise,  for  joy,  when  God  re 
news 

The  vanished  beauty  that  some  hard  duty  hath  caused  a 
soul  to  lose. 

"  But  how  could  a  woman  so  old  and  poor  "  said  the'High- 

Priest  "  own  such  a  stone, 
Unless,  O  King,  'tis  an  evil  thing  and  she  were  a  witch 

full-grown  ?  " 
"  Ay,  Sire,"  said  a  courtier  chiming  in,  "  No  doubt  'tis  the 

Devil's  own ; 
The  price  of  her  soul,  which  she  pawned,  to  win  sure  way 

to  this  chamber  lone." 

"  You  are  doubtless  right,"  quoth  the  new-crowned  King, 

u  but  this  gem  escheats  to  the  State  ; 
And,  if  Eblis  himself  a   claim  should  bring,  I  should  tell 

him  he  sued  too  late  ; 
Yet,  perhaps,  'twere  well  any  evil  spell  of  this  mystery  to 

abate, 
And  with  prayer  and  incense  and  incantation  this  room  to 

reconsecrate." 

So  with  lamentation  and  ululation,  with  music  low  and 

loud, 
With    many   a   solemn    incantation   and  many  an  incense 

cloud, 
And   mystic   pomp  of  desolation  that   awed   the   common 

crowd 
The  secret  priests  above  the  dead  till  midnight  bowed  and 

vowed. 


(94) 


Then  the  royal  corpse  they  laid  to  rest  'mid  a  vast  vault's 
slow  decay ; 

But  the  woman's  body  to  ground  unblest  they  wisely  hud 
dled  away. 

Yet,  spite  of  them  all,  blooms  up  from  her  breast  a  death 
less  flower,  men  sav, 

And  the  jewel  for  which  her  soul  was  pawned  cnrvns  a 
Hindoo  god  to-day. 


The  meaning  of  this  mystery,  you  ask  me,  O  Bright  Eyes 
That  hold  so  much  heart-history  of  fancies  more  than  wise, 
Of  dreams,  as  weirdly  shapen  as  clouds  in  summer  skies, 
And  marvellous  affections  that  words  can  but  disguise? 

You  ask  me  for  the  moral  laid  in  this  rhythmic  nest? 
Well,  Sweetheart,  there  be  many,  but  one  may  please  you 

best. 

Love  is  the  flower  eternal  on  the  dark,  half-human  sod, 
And  Love  the  chief  crown-jewel  upon  the  brow  of  God. 


DISCIPLINE. 

Out  of  the  presses  of  pain 
Cometh  the  soul's  best  wine 

And  the  eyes  that  have  shed  no  rain 
Can  shed  but  little  shine. 


(95) 


DO    YOU    REMEMBER? 

Do  you  remember 
The  red  September, 
When  like  an  ember 

From  sunset  skies 
The  orchard  olden 
Looked  rosy-golden  — 
Through  silvern  mist,  a  thin  disguise; 
And  I  beheld  the  earth's  gay  beauty, 
Its  autumn  splendor,  full  and  fruity, 
Reflected  in  your  hazel  eyes? 

Do  you  remember 
The  gray  November, 
When  pearl  and  amber 
From  hill  to  shore, 
With  shadows  dimmer, 
Was  all  the  glimmer 
The  languid  land  at  sunset  wore? 
'Twas  then  through  downcast  lids  love  beckoned, 
And  you,  in  one  sweet,  sudden  second, 

Looked  up,  a  woman,  —  girl  no  more. 

Do  you  remember 
The  white  December, 
The  dim-lit  chamber, 

The  hearth's  dull  beams  : 
At  which  I  found  you, 
With  perfume  round  you, 
Low  singing  to  the  fire's  faint  gleams ! 
'Twas  then  that  first  I  kissed  your  tresses, 
And  you  confessed  amid  caresses  — 

It  was  the  Christinas  of  your  dreams. 


(96) 


Now,  red  Septembers 
And  gray  Novembers 
And  white  Decembers, 
With  joy  and  pain, 
Have  twined  around  us 
So  oft,  and  found  us 

In  pain  and  pleasure  one,  —  though  twain, 
That  now  my  memory  findeth  trouble 
To  think  just  when,  O  sweetest  double, 
Love  in  our  hearts  began  his  reign. 


THE    NATIONALIST    PIONEERS. 

[May  I,  1889.] 

Not  heralded  with  thunder  of  dull  drums, 
Or  cannon  booming  round  the  echoey  hills, 

Not  armed  with  swords,  but  thoughts,  our  army  comes  ; 
Yet  through  its  ranks  a  grander  music  thrills 

Than  ever  cheered  the  charge  on  fiery  field 
Where  man  for  man  has  offered  up  his  life  : 
We  know  how  long  and  strong  may  be  the  strife, 

But  Right  fights  with  us  and  we  dare  not  yield  : 
Else,  having  seen  the  light  and  heard  the  song 

Of  that  most  holy  hill,  the  prophets'  place, 
If  we  should  falter  'gainst  the  present  wrong, 

How  could  we  look  our  brothers  in  the  face  ? 


(97) 


IN    MEMORIAM    OF    BOYLE    O'REILLY 
AND     BERNARD    CARPENTER. 

[Read  at  Papyrus  Club  Dinner,  Oct.  4,  1890.] 

By  empty  chairs  shall  we  the  glass  invert, 
After  the  mode  approved  in  Omar's  song, 

When  those  whose  wit  once  made  the  true  dessert 
Are  sadly  absent  from  the  festal  throng  ? 

By  empty  chairs  shall  we  the  glass  turn  down  ? 

Nay,  friends,  what  need  of  symbols  to  express 
Our  deep  regret  and  their  most  high  renown 

Whose  lives  made  pleasure  more  and  sorrow  less? 

The  kindly  smile  that  welcomed  ere  it  came 
Another's  jest  and  brightly  sped  it  on  — 

The  ready  grasp,  warm  with  the  heart's  fine  flame  — 
The  tuneful  tongue  —  are  they  forever  gone  ? 

Is  the  great  Soul,  with  wide  affections  crowned, 

Merely  a  chemic  vapor,  as  they  sav 
Who  think  that  Mind  is  but  a  higher  round 

On  Matter's  ladder,  sure  to  wear  away? 

Nay  —  such  a  life  as  his,  who  once  was  chief 
Of  our  high  company,  would  seem  designed 

To  prove,  if  man  needs  greater  proof  than  grief, 
That  over  mind  is  something  more  than  mind. 


(98) 


Was  it  O'Reilly's  genius  made  his  death 

So  deeply  felt  in  tenement  and  hall? 
Or  was  it  heart  which,  though  unseen  like  breath, 

Like  breath  is  felt  at  once  and  felt  by  all? 

No  need  to  answer  this  in  schoolman  phrase, 
No  need  to  speak.     Leaping  from  every  eye, 

Though  Genius  dazzle  with  prismatic  rays, 
That  Heart  is  King,  comes  the  supreme  reply. 

But  in  our  chieftain  do  we  not  sometimes, 

When  well  escaped  from  Trade's  delirious  din, 

Through  the  sweet  saneness  of  his  noble  rhymes 
Find  Heart  and  Genius  proven  to  be  twin? 

And  he,  that  other  child  of  Sorrow's  Isle, 
With  wit  and  learning  playing  on  his  lips, 

A  modern  priest  for  whom  the  Muse's  smile 
Kept  formal  creed  in  beautiful  eclipse : 

He,  too,  went  down  the  dark  and  lonely  path, 

Into  the  valley  of  the  shadow  strange, 
Inspired  —  and  oh  !  his  inspiration  hath 

The  freshness  of  tomorrow  in  its  range. 

His  inner  life  was  like  his  parting  song, 

That  lyric  lovely  as  a  lover's  kiss 
Burning  with  love,  yet  filled  with  hate  of  wrong, 

The  song  entitled,  "  In  a  World  Like  This." 

Ah  !   in  a  world  like  this  how  manv  things 
Perplex  those  natures  who  perfection  seek  ! 

How  often  want  weighs  down  the  poet's  wings 

And  fools  make  noises,  when  the  Muse  would  speak  ! 


(99) 


Therefore,  'twas  said  "  Whom  the  Gods  love  die  young, 
Thus,  many  deaths  escaping ;  "  and  in  truth 

Perhaps  'tis  wrong  to  yearn  for  songs  unsung  — 

Or  wish  those  back  who  leave  us,  crowned  with  youth. 

And  yet,  when  die  the  noble  and  the  great, 
While  men  of  envious  tongue  and  double  face 

Live  on  and  prosper  in  this  earthly  state, 
How  bitter  seems  the  riddle  of  the  race  ! 

How  cruel  seems  the  Sphinx  with  woman-smile 
And  tiger-heart  propounding  day  by  day 

A  question  dark  that  haunts  us  all  the  while  — 
A  ghostly  question  which  no  words  can  lay  I 

But  yet,  my  friends,  we  are  not  here  to-night 
To  mourn  our  poets,  who,  when  summer's  rose 

Was  blushing  deepest,  full  of  vital  light, 
Sudden,  went  silent  to  their  first  repose. 

For  oh,  dear  friends,  the  time  for  grief  is  passed. 

The  glorious  memory  of  well-spent  years, 
E'en  as  their  force  all  marble  can  outl;ist, 

Into  a  rainbow  should  transmute  all  tears. 

They  are  not  really  vanished  into  naught, 

Because  we  cannot  touch  them  with  our  hands 

We  touch  them  deeper  with  our  hearts  :  the  thought 
Unseen  the  unseen  spirit  understands. 

They  are  not  really  vanished,  but  so  bright 

Their  spirits  on  our  cloudy  vision  rise 
That  we  are  dazzled  by  excess  of  light : 

The  glory  of  their  morning  blinds  our  eyes. 


(IOC) 


DATE  DUE 


GAYLORD 


000541786 


